


The Fire Triangle, Prologue -- Escape From Zoo York

by Merc_Marten



Series: The Fire Triangle -- A Zootopia Fanfiction [1]
Category: Anthropomorphism, Disney - All Media Types, Furry (Fandom), Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Betrayal, Corruption, Cybercrimes, Deception, Escape, Evil Corporations, Gen, Mystery, Organized Crime, Revenge, Sieges, Smuggling, Suspense, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-05 09:30:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12187398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merc_Marten/pseuds/Merc_Marten
Summary: It is the year before the Savage Predator crisis. Nick Wilde is hustling Pawpsicles and Judy Hopps is preparing to enter the Zootopia Police Academy.Meanwhile, in another city, a ruthless billionaire prepares to make certain that the true secret of Nighthowler serum will never see the light of day.There's only one thing he didn't count on...





	1. Prologue -- Escape From Zoo York,1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoo York City, one year before the Zootopia Savage Predator Crisis

**Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws**

* * *

  **The Fire Triangle**

**By**

**Merc Marten**

* * *

  **Overture:**

**<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oW72HQFk1Y0> **

* * *

**From Wikipedia:**

The  **fire triangles**  or  **combustion triangles**  are simple models for understanding the necessary ingredients for most fires.

The triangle illustrates the three elements a fire needs to ignite:  **heat, fuel** , and an  **oxidizing agent**  (usually oxygen).

A fire naturally occurs when the elements are present and combined in the right mixture, meaning that fire is actually an _event_  rather than a _thing._

* * *

**"Italy wants peace and quiet, work and calm. I will give these things with love if possible and with force if necessary."**

**Benito Mussolini, 1925**

**"When the Gods wish to punish us, they grant our wishes."**

**Oscar Wilde**

* * *

**Prologue - Escape From Zoo York**

**Zoo York City, Easter Sunday**

**[]**

**"My greatest pleasure is to choose one's victim, to prepare one's plans minutely, to slake an implacable vengeance, and then to go to bed. There is nothing sweeter in the world."**

**Joseph Stalin, 1915**

* * *

**Prologue – Escape From Zoo York: Chapter 1**

Danny Tipperin had never cared much for his underworld nickname—but he understood its value; when you're a relatively small species, a moniker that fairly breathes 'don't mess with me' can be very useful at times.

This, of course, is providing you have the skills to go with it—which you  _better_  believe Danny did—and though he couldn't possibly know it, he was less than five minutes away from demonstrating that his street handle was both well-earned and richly deserved.

Danny was a swift fox, a mid-size species as foxes go, standing in at about halfway between a red fox and a fennec fox. Like all of his species, he had fur the color of wheat straw turning to steel gray around the back, and with black highlights dusting the nose and hindquarters. Also typical for a swift-fox he was possessed of a lean, rangy physique, kept rock hard and limber-trim through daily workouts at the local gym. His brown eyes were both sharp and inquisitive.

Unlike most members of The Company, Danny was nobody's flashy dresser, no pinky-ring on his little finger, no gold chains around his neck; his wristwatch was titanium, not platinum. The closest thing to a bauble on his furson in fact was his tie pin—a tiny, golden globe bisected by an anchor.

That was one decoration Danny was more than willing to wear; he'd  _earned_ that right, (although usually he went open-collared, instead affixing the pin to his left lapel.)

Today however, was not 'usually'.

_"This is a bad idea."_

The unbidden thought had been popping into Danny's head ever since he'd awakened that morning. Now it burst in his psyche with the clarity of a thunderclap, causing the swift fox to startle in his seat for a second.

Fortunately he was stopped for a light at the moment and no one else had seen him.

Not that it mattered; both Danny and his reputation were well known to everyone in the Down Under the Mammalhattan Bridge Overpass district, (more commonly known by its acronym;) even if his discomfit had been observed by every animal in the neighborhood, not a single one of them would have acknowledged it.

The light turned green and he moved on.

After five more blocks and a sharp right turn, there she was; 'Heads up, here's Finagles', as the locals liked to say.

It was a trick of the local topography that the club never came into view gradually. One second it was nowhere to be seen and then there it was, in all its glazed-brick glory. Unusual for Zoo York City, the place came with a sprawling parking lot, a once-and former cargo dock. It was prime real-estate that empty lot, especially for this part of Barklyn, but no developer in his right mind would dream of making an offer on it—not unless he relished the idea of spending the next three months in a wheelchair.

A Zoo York magazine columnist had once described Finagle's architecture as 'sugar-cubist'; a towering, modernist castle, sheathed entirely in hotel-soap white. Even in daylight with the neon dimmed to a cool ash-gray it was a hard place to miss.

As Danny knew well, those lights would not be coming back on for at least another week…as attested to by the flowing blue-and white banner spanning the front of the building, "Closed For Annual Spring Cleaning."

Danny knew of course, that his was only partially true; yes the club was shutting its doors for the coming week, but the annual spruce-up was only the secondary reason. There was another deeper purpose behind the closure.

_"This is a bad idea."_

He put away the thought and peered through the windshield; yep, there he was, right where he belonged.

Up ahead, seated on a folding camp chair, was the rotund bulk of the Alaskan Brown Bear, holding down fort at the parking lot's middle gate. (The other two were both locked.)

Danny smirked as he noted Benny Beerbohm was sporting what had to be the world's ugliest Hawaiian shirt, a hideous red thing decorated with cartoon pineapples.

 _"Sheesh, The Mister must have had to put a GUN to Benny's head to get him to wear_  that _thing."_ The swift fox mused quietly to himself.

Benny didn't seem to care, in fact, he looked as if he were about to nod off at any second.

From long experience, Danny knew the half-asleep routine was only an act; Benny could look halfway to comatose one second and be all over you in the next. Among his other duties, he was one of the club's bouncers.

Pulling his car up to the gate Danny scrutinized the a little bear more closely. Was he carrying…?  Yes, in the brown bag under his seat; there ware pawprints around the edges as if it had been picked up and put down several times already.

 _"He_ better  _be packing heat_ **today.** " The swift fox reminded himself,  _"We ALL should."_

He beeped the horn twice. Benny offered him a bored look, but no greeting. Then he reached for the bag, got up and lumbered over to open the gate. Danny nodded in appreciation. Even now the bear was keeping his weapon handy; that was how you did it.

_"This is a bad idea."_

Danny slammed the thought back in its box and pulled his car through the gate, offering Benny a desultory wave as he passed. The bear did not return it.

Easing into his private parking space a moment later Danny took note of Zeke Zinneman parked by the back door, leaning his chair against the wall and noodling around on a computer tablet.

Like Benny Beerbohm, he was an Alaskan Brown Bear; UN-like his fellow ursine he was someone Danny neither liked nor respected. (Benny he respected, a surly jerk maybe, but also a professional to the core; you couldn't say that about Zeke.)

"You better NOT be playing Wreck-It Rhino on the job again." The swift fox growled under his breath as he killed the engine. "If The Mister finds out you were slacking off at your post—today of all days—there won't be enough left of your butt to make a decent throw rug."

He unbuckled his seat-belt and cracked the door, pushing it open with his feet.

Danny's car the closest thing he had in his life to a pride and joy, a late model, fireball red Dawdge Chinchillanger. It was at least two sizes too big for his species; more appropriate to a wolf than a swift-fox. No problem, he'd had the seats and pedals modified to suit his height. (The red squirrel that did the job had also made certain 'engine mods' and fitted the windows with bulletproof glass.)

Sliding to the ground and dropping into a three-point stance, Danny swung the car-door closed with his elbow and thumbed a button on his key-fob, popping the trunk.

He next proceeded to demonstrate how the swift-fox species came by its name; skittering around to the back of the vehicle, he made a jackknife leap up and into the truck, emerging a split-second later with a backpack in his jaws, held by one of the straps.

Standing up again, he slung the pack over shoulder and pressed the key-fob button a second time, watching as the trunk clammed up. Then he turned and head for the club's back door

Danny had known it was coming even before he got out of the car. And yep, the instant he came around the front of his car, Zeke's face broke into a big, smarmy grin.

"Hey, I like that pack, it's perfect for yas."

The backpack was a mite too small even for a swift fox, and emblazoned on the back in, spiky stylized script were the words, 'Kingdom Harts'.

Ordinarily, Danny would have the bear's remark slide...except at that moment, a shadow darted across the Chinchillinger's hood, leaving a sickly white splatter in its wake. Expressionless, Danny looked up, following the path of the offending seagull as it beat a hasty retreat.

For perhaps a second, he tilted his head sideways, as a fox will do when something piques its curiosity.

And then he flipped open his sport coat, and slipped his paw inside, his movements as casual as if he were reaching for his wallet to pay the check at a sidewalk café.

What he drew out instead was a hi-tech tranquilizer dart gun.

Hardly bothering even to glance at his target, the swift fox took aim and pulled the trigger. By now, the seagull had shrunk to the size of an Emoji, but after maybe three more seconds, it stopped in midair and went plummeting into a pile of grain sacks on a distant pier, out cold.

Returning the weapon to its holster, Danny was pleased to take note of the fact that Zeke was already making haste to put the tablet away. It was good to remind the lesser gang members every once in a while that Danny Tipperin wasn't known on the street as 'The Danaconda' because the name had a nice ring to it.

Never one to waste good motion, the swift fox was already grabbing a pawkerchief as he stowed the weapon and hopped up onto the hood of his car. It took him only three good swipes to remove the seagull's calling card, but Zeke apparently thought even this small effort was too much work for a mammal of Danny's rank; he cupped his paws to his muzzle.

"Heyyy, whaddaya doin' over there, Tipperin? Don't clean up that goo  _yourself,_  get Dylan to take care of it for yas."

At this Danny paused for a second. If Zeke thought he was going to take the suggestion as a peace offering, he was even more disconnected than the swift fox thought. He felt his right upper lip begin to twitch and rise, exposing a fang.

But again he said nothing, instead pausing to look out over the East river. A stiff breeze had begun to kick up, churning the surface into a diamond pattern. He should have found the image a calming influence, but instead the unwanted thought came popping into his head again

_"This is a bad idea."_

For once it had come with a small warning and so time Danny felt no urge to flinch, (especially not in front of Zeke!)

But when he slid down off the hood and turned towards the rear of Finagles again, _another_ hot thought came crashing in on top of it.

_"This is the last time I'm ever gonna see this place."_

Once again, Danny managed to keep his composure, but only just. To compensate, he drew a toothpick from his breast pocket and popped it into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth. It was his stock method of cooling his jets, a fact known only to Kieran and Dylan, his only two friends within the Company; (actually more like one and a  _half_  friends—but never mind.) Most of the others, Zeke Zinneman included, were tolerant of him at best, contemptuous at worst, and there was at least one member of The Company who hated his guts with a passion.

He rolled the toothpick to the corner of his mouth, studying Zeke for a second.

Like most of the gang's other heavies, Zeke Zinneman was an Alaskan Brown Bear, the largest of all ursine species…and in Danny's opinion, a vastly overrated one.  In the animal kingdom, size doesn't always matter; Alaskan browns might be the biggest of all bears, but for speed, aggression, and pound-for-pound strength, no other ursine could match a Malayan Sun Bear…and that wasn't even mentioning the Sun Bears' long, curving, diamond-sharp claws, capable of reducing a coconut to milk and fragments with only a single swipe.

Danny had seen them do it—in his position within the company he did a lot of traveling—and against any one of  _those_  guys, Zeke wouldn't last five seconds.

He shuddered slightly at another new thought. And that was only if you stacked Zeke up against a member of his OWN species. There was another mammal Danny knew of, one whose size belayed its destructive capabilities even more so than a sun-bear—MUCH more. Members of this particular species were known to take on a predators twenty times their own size…and destroy them.

And very shortly, he was going to be face-to-face with a whole _slew_ of these animals…including the one in particular whom he'd once hoped never to meet again.

_"This is a BAD idea."_

He shook it off and hitched the pack over his shoulder again, heading for the club's rear entrance.

"Any of the others here yet, Zeke?" he queried as he approached the bear. 

"Only Kieran," Zeke shrugged, but Danny was pleased nonetheless. Good, that was who he wanted to see anyway. Well, Kieran and one other animal…

But then he saw something and swiftly put aside these thoughts; the corners of Zeke's mouth were curling downward in an angry grimace.

"What?" he asked.

Before answering, the brown bear looked left and right, and then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, (actually more of a low-grade snarl.)

"I saw Junior hanging around a while ago, too.  I ain't seen nothing of him since, but that don't mean much." His face was a mask of contempt.

Danny growled, and wanted to fox-scream.  Dangit, the guy he _least_ wanted to run into right now!

Zeke Brenner growled back, and nodded;  Junior was one of the few points upon which he and Danny Tipperin agreed wholeheartedly.

But Danny still didn't like the bear.

"Here, wanna get rid of this for me." He said, tossing him the soiled pawkerchief.  Zeke bobbled it for a second and nearly dropped it.

"Hey, I ain't your garbage…!"

But Danny was already through the door.

Inside, the swift-fox scooted down the steps on all fours and began strolling through the kitchen towards the dance-floor, It was a big place—most of the kitchen staff were large mammal species and some of the utensils hanging from the rack over Danny's head were nearly the same size he was,

In fact, Finagles kitchen was fairly small for such a large establishment, but then, mammals didn't come here to  _eat._

As he passed by the last of the stoves, Danny paused for a second, lifting his muzzle and sniffing.  Yes, it had been used recently, less than an hour ago by the aroma of things, and the  _specialite de la maison_  had been poached oysters.

Poached…that meant The Mister's guts were acting up on him again.

Not.

Good.

Especially today

_"This is a bad idea."_

_"Yeah, yeah…tell me something I_ don't _know."_ The swift fox grumbled silently, responding to the thought for the first time.

When Danny entered the dance-floor, he almost didn't recognize the place. Although certainly no stranger to Finagles, he had only been here once before when the club wasn't open for business—and on that occasion the place had been under construction, with workers of practically every species swarming everywhere.

Not so today; right now the floor was completely empty and as silent as deserted cathedral; the light inside dull gray and dancing with motes. The only thing needed to complete the effect would have been the sound of pigeons' wings beating.

Hard to believe, in the midst of all this quietude, that Finagle's was the hottest dance club in the Five Burrows, but it was all that, and in spades. In the whole of Zoo York City, there was no better hangout for celebrity-watching; on any given night you might find yourself sharing the dance floor with Derek Cheetah, rubbing shoulders at the bar with Emma Stoat, or watching Bradly Raccooper stroll past your seat. Gazelle always reserved a table here whenever she was in town, occasionally wowing the patrons with an impromptu serenade. (On her last visit, she had brought down the house with a preview of her brand-new single, "Try Everything.")

Swept away by the memory Danny found himself looking upwards, past the terraces of tables stacked with upturned chairs, towards top tier and the table upon which Gazelle been standing on that magical night.

And then his eyes went up even further, towards the window of the office perched high above the terraces; the curtains were drawn, but lights were on; The Mister was in his den. Zeke hadn't mentioned this earlier, but then Danny was expected to know his boss's whereabouts at all times without needing to be told.

James, 'The Mister' McCrodon was the off-the-books owner of Finagles—and also head of The Company, the most feared gang of criminals on the east coast. So vicious was their reputation that even the formidable Mr. Big was known to a wary eye on them, even though his home turf was 3000 miles away.

It was an open secret in Zoo York City that The Company was Finagles' off-the-books owner. In most other towns, that would have kept the patrons away in droves.  Here, it had just the opposite effect. As the late Jimmy Bearslin had once observed, "There's nothing a Zoo Yorker loves more than thinking he got away with it."

In addition to Finagles (and several other legitimate businesses) The Company had their paws in a myriad of other enterprises, none of them legal, loansharking, online gambling, and bootleg pharmaceuticals to name just three, but the gang's piece-de-resistance was illegal arms trading…and that was where Danny Tipperin came in.

By no means were his abilities with weapons limited to shooting skills; Danny Tipperin could tell an ersatz copy of a firearm from the real deal with only a quick glance. (And woe unto the animal who tried to pull a bait-and-switch on THIS fox.) Accordingly, he wielded a lot of clout within the Company…and enjoyed a great deal of resentment from some the others because of it, especially from…

_"What the HECK?"_

At the opposite end of the dance-floor, the double doors had just flown open and a troop of beavers were trundling in, carrying a pair of huge logs on their shoulders.

To call it a precarious balancing act would have been the understatement of the year; beavers are engineers, not pack animals; Danny winced as he watched the logs pitch and yaw, like ships broaching-to on an angry sea. It was only when one of the denuded tree-trunks came  _that_ close to taking out a row of tables that the swift-fox realized he should quit just standing there and DO something.

But before he could move or even speak, someone else came in through the double doors, a young sea-mink, the much-larger cousin of the common mink.

He was dressed in a silk suit with an open-collar shirt and massive gold chain encircling his throat; a laughable ensemble given his scarecrow-scrawny physique, coupled with bad fur, and whiskers like strands of a steel wool pad.  He had turned 21 a month ago but looked like he was barely old enough for a driver's license.

Danny Tipperin had never met Duke Weaselton, but if he had, his first conclusion would have been that compared to James McCrodon Jr, the Dukester was Prince Charming….and it wasn't just his looks as the kid now proceeded to demonstrate

Though it seemed to the swift-fox that the beavers were making their best efforts, it apparently wasn't good enough for Jimmy Junior. All at once he commenced to exhort the rodents with exaggerated paw gestures—and a voice not unlike that of a chicken about to have its head lopped off.

"Come on, come on… move yer paddle tails! Get goin' we don't got forever. Hi-Ho! Hi-Ho! It's off to work we GO!"

None of the beavers answered him verbally. But one or two of the oversize rodents—walking safely behind Junior, where he couldn't see them—responded by giving him the gesture known as the 'red-eye'…pulling down on a lower eyelid, while at the same time sticking out their tongues.

Danny of course  _could_  see them, but he said nothing, instead watching the spectacle with a mixture of amusement and scorn.

But then she saw where this jury-rigged carnival was going; headed straight for where he was standing. He felt his ears turn sideways and his neck fur standing up; bad enough that Junior was here, but now he'd have the jerk right in his face.

Not quite; at the center of the floor, the procession halted, and the beavers somehow managed to set the logs down with dropping them. When they set to work on the wood with their teeth, the swift fox felt his ears roll upwards and point at each other. This whole thing was getting crazier and crazier.

Glancing over at Junior, Danny saw that the sea-mink appeared to have lost interest in the project. He had plugged in a pair of ear-buds and was grooving along with his iPaw, oblivious to the world at large.

_"I'm shipping up to Pawston….Heyyyyy-eyyyyy, oooo…"_

Danny turned his attention back to the beavers, more confused than ever.

But then he began to see a purpose to all the effort; the big rodents were hewing the logs into a huge, ornate conference table and a set of matching chairs.

Well fine, except…

 _"This is a_  really  _bad idea!"_ the swift fox thought, and this time he wasn't referring to the upcoming meeting. He sucked at his toothpick for a moment, considering his options.

And then he went over and tapped Jimmy Jr. on the shoulder. The sea-mink spun around rapidly, annoyed at having his groove interrupted; even more so when he recognized the culprit.

"What's going on, Junior?" Danny asked him, waving towards the half-finished table.

In spite of his dislike for the fox, or perhaps because of it, Jimmy Jr. couldn't resist puffing a little.

"What do you think, huh?" he said, pulling out the left earbud. "I'm having it made-up special, just for the sit-down."

Removing the second bud, Junior turned to Danny with folded arms and a self-satisfied smile, as if expecting the swift-fox to fall on his knees, chanting Hosannas in recognition of such a brilliant coup.

No such luck, Tipperin's nod was lukewarm as best…and then he even  _frowned._

"Nice furnishin's." He allowed, extending an open paw towards the work-in-progress, "But look at the mess you're making over here."

Already the floor was ankle-deep in shards and shavings—and the pile was growing steadily higher.

Caught off guard, Jimmy blinked and wrung his paws. As happened all too frequently with the stripling sea-mink, he hadn't thought things through.

But then he swiftly recovered, waving one paw in a throwaway gesture.

"No problem, I'll have Dylan clean it up."

Danny Tipperin felt his left eyebrow spiking upwards.

"All THAT…all by  _himself?"_

Even as he spoke, the swift-fox knew what Junior's answer would be and moved quickly to pre-empt it.

"Anyway, the Mister's got other things for him to do," He said, holding up the backpack for added effect, "He ain't just our Go-Fer anymore, ya know."

As he'd hoped, Junior said nothing to this, responding only with a sullen nod--but Danny couldn't help noting the bristling neck-fur and the curling lip. It was almost as if the swift-fox had just made a dig, (and in fact, he had.)

The young sea mink might have given voice to his pique…except that he had bigger concerns at the moment; Danny was right, the dance floor looked like the aftermath of a tornado hitting a lumberyard.

And when his The Mister came downstairs and saw the landfill his son had just created, right before the big sit down…!

Junior began to wring his paws once more, this time completely helpless.

Danny Tipperin knew he was going to regret this…and on any other day he would have left Junior to stew in his own broth. Today, however, that was not an option; he clapped his paws, speaking to the crew of beavers.

"Okay guys, listen up! When you're done with the woodwork, we need yas to get this place cleaned up, and cleaned up good. Extra fifty in it for each of ya…do a real good job and I'll make it a hundred."

The rodents' response was a whoop and a cheer; a few of them giving each other tail slaps, before setting back to work with gusto.

Danny nodded and turned away, looking satisfied—that is until he found himself confronted by one VERY ticked off Junior McCrodon.

"Don't worry, I'm good for it," he told the sea-mink, offering a placating gesture with his free paw.

But Junior didn't _want_  to be placated; he narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth;

"Hey short-stuff, what do you think you're doing, hijacking MY show, huh?"

Danny rolled the toothpick between his lips, his face—and his neck fur—betraying nothing of his emotions, a practiced habit that had taken the swift-fox many long hours of concentration to develop.

"Hey, I'm just trying to help out over here." He said, offering a mild shrug…a response not even close to the one he'd have LIKED to give this punk. (Benny or Zeke would have gotten a trank dart the instant they'd showed him _their_ fangs.)

Danny might just as well have saved his breath; when Jimmy Jr.'s mouth was running, it was impossible for him to catch up with it.

"When I want YOUR help, I'll ask for it… _shrimp!"_

For half a second everything appeared to freeze in place, like a digital movie FX; the beavers, the wood chips, even the air in the enclosure seemed to screech to halt. Danny could handle 'short stuff', no sweat…but calling  _this_  fox a shrimp was like wiping your feet on a live rattlesnake.

Nonetheless, his ears stayed put and his voice remained on an even keel. It was only the spiking of his neck fur that offered any indication of his mood…and Jimmy Jr. couldn't see it from where he was standing.

"What'd you call me, Junior?" he asked…a little  _too_  carelessly.

At this, the beavers abruptly ceased working and several of them ducked behind the table.  _They_  got it.

Junior didn't…

"I called you shrimp." He sneered, leaning over Danny with his paws on his hips," What are you gonna DO about it... _pipsqueak?"_

What Danny did about it was…nothing.

…for about three seconds, and then he spit the toothpick violently out the side of his mouth; making a sound like the discharge of a paintball gun.

The effect was like changing a channel. In the blink of an eye the cocky young mustelid morphed into a walking panic-attack. With terrified shriek, he backed pell-mell away from the swift fox, in the process snaring his foot in his tail, and tumbling over backwards to land on his butt.

Hisses, coughs, and stifled sniggers came from all around the sea mink as he shot back furiously to his feet.

"You…You dirty…." He sniffed, fighting back the tears, "Just wait 'til I tell my dad!"

"An just _what_ will you tell him then, cousin?" a new voice queried, rich and high with an Irish-cream brogue and more than a touch of irony, "That ye got scared over a toothpick that didn't even _hit_ yer? Not the sort of thing to make yer look tough in the eyes of yer Da, is it then?"

Jimmy turned and Danny looked.

Another sea-mink had just joined the conversation…the polar opposite of Jimmy, big and hard muscled, dressed in designer jeans and a photo-print tee shirt, with the letters UFZ on the front, topped off by an 'old skool' motorcycle jacket and a red bandanna wrapped around his head. A tote bag and a manila envelope were tucked under his left arm,

"You stay outta this, Kieran," the young sea-mink raged, "and don't call me, 'cousin.'

"Believe me, James Jr." The larger mustelid's eyes were shining as he offered a lye-soaked grin, "there's _nothin'_  I'd like better than to never have to call YOU cousin."

"Oh, yeah?" Junior sounded like kit on a schoolyard. "Oh yeah! Well don't forget nerd-geek, someday you're gonna call ME Mister McCrodon."

With eyebrows raised and eyes rolling, Kieran and Danny exchanged a look. Yeah, right… and how's everything  _else_  in Fantasyland?

Then Kieran turned an almost thoughtful expression on Junior "Nerd-geek, am I? Well, now…" Looking quietly to the right, he spied basket sized block of wood, sitting forlornly amidst the rest of detritus of the table-in-progress.

With stunning, blinding speed, the sea-mink wheeled about and brought his pawlm heel down on the block; splitting it in two with a loud crack, though his paw barely seemed to touch the wood.

"…I wouldn't say that." he concluded, turning back to his cousin with an almost beatific smile. Both the envelope and tote bag were right where they'd been when he started.

The move was somewhat less effective than Danny's gesture had been; Junior didn't go tail-over-teakettle again, he only reeled back a little.

Even so…

"You'll be sorry, both of you." The skinny sea-mink glared from Danny to Kieran and back again with moist, shining eyes.

"Just wait," he promised, leveling a finger …and then hurried off in the direction of the elevator, scurrying on all fours.

As soon as he was gone, Kieran turned to Danny with a skewed, sardonic expression.

"D'yer want to kick  _me_ first or shall I start?" They both knew where Junior was headed.

"Let's just get down to business." The swift fox answered in a tired, grating voice. Behind him, the beavers had finished work on the table and chairs and were starting the clean-up process.

"Right," Said Kieran, pointing to the backpack, "You got the goods then, boyo?"

Danny patted the side of the pack, "It's all set. Just gotta get the regular stuff packed on top and it's all good to go." He set it down, nodding toward the Manila envelope still nestled under the sea-mink's arm, "What about your end Druid, you ready to roll?"

Kieran clamped his jaws and hissed through his teeth.

"Shhh, don't call me that in front o' them beavers, boyo."

It wasn't that the nickname bothered him—in fact, Kieran reveled in it. But only Danny, the Mister and one other animal had leave to call him by that name and _nobody_  had better be heard saying it in public.

"Sorry," the swift fox answered, looking uncharacteristically apologetic.

Kieran nodded and removed envelope from beneath his elbow.

"All set." He answered, patting the side, the way Danny had done with the backpack.

"What about that?" the swift fox queried, pointing towards the tote-bag, still nestled under Kieran's arm.

A corner of sea-mink's mouth pulled inwards.

"Tha-a-at's not goin' with Dylan, boyo…it's the laptop, the Hail-Mary laptop if yer know what I mean. The Mister wants me to keep it with me all times today. I think yer can understand why."

Danny glanced for a second towards the finished table, a richly carved, baroque design, then back at the sea mink again.

"At least he's tryin' to cover his bets a little," he said.

He'd have liked to say more, but just then Kieran interrupted with a small hiss of air from the side of his mouth.

"Sssst, better brace up boyo…here he comes now, looks like."

Danny turned and looked backwards. Yep, there was the elevator, descending slowly from the club's upper terrace. He tried to peer closer but all he could see through the glass were the backs of two more bears.

Kieran saw it too, and let out a long, stuttering breath.

"Oi, and he's got a PAIR of the wide boys with him; s'not a good sign, boyo."

Danny sighed, nodded, and then the both of them were standing up ramrod straight, prisoners on the scaffold awaiting the noose…which might soon very well be the case.

After a too-long moment, the elevator finally reached the ground floor. For an even longer second, nothing happened…and then the door slid opened and the bears stepped out, moving to stand on either side of the shaft while James McCrodon Jr. and James McCrodon Sr, (aka The Mister) also made their exits.

At the sight of their boss, Danny and Kieran had to force their faces to remain immobile, not because they were afraid (although they were) but rather to keep from betraying even a hint of their disgust.

The Mister wasn't just overweight, he was grossly, almost obscenely fat. (If Benjamin Clawhauser had chosen to step out onto the dance floor right now, he'd have looked half-starved by comparison.)

He was also confined to a wheelchair, a GOLD plated wheelchair… a display so ostentatious it was practically hilarious; (although no one with half a brain would ever laugh at James 'The Mister' McCrodon…not within earshot anyway.)

"At least he's wearin 'a hat." Kieran observed in a whispering aside to Danny.

"Quiet!' Danny hissed, although privately he had to agree. The scalp beneath the Mister's touring cap could best be likened to a peeled pink-grapefruit.

In addition to the headgear he also had on tan slacks, a striped polo shirt…and a scowl a mile deep. Laying across his lap was his famous blackthorn walking stick—another sign that he was not in the best of moods.

Junior, on the other paw seemed almost ecstatic, jabbing a finger in Danny and Kieran's direction while practically dancing on his feet.

"That's them, Daddy… _there_ they are!"

'They' just rolled eyes at each other;  _'Daddy'_ …and as IF The Mister couldn't see them for himself.

Moving behind the chair one of the bears tried to take hold of the handles, but The Mister angrily waved him off and grabbed the wheels, barreling towards his pair of underlings like a freight train getting up steam.

"You…YOU! Get yer stinkin' tails over here an' right now!"

His voice was throaty, guttural, and gutter-coarse.

Danny and Kieran didn't need to guess who he was talking to, and they met their boss at the halfway point, nearly getting run over in the process.

Slamming to a halt only centimeters away from the pair, the Mister pointed to each of them in turn with his blackthorn stick.

"Awrite, Tipperin, Kieran, what's this I hear about youse two messing with my kid…again?"

It's Danny who answered first…or that is, he  _tried_  to.

"Mister McCrodon, it was all a misunder…"

"And what the heck is THIS stuff?" The Mister demanded, pointing angrily at the table with his stick, "Who gave you two morons permission to build a table right in the middle of my dance floor, huh? It's just a good thing Jimmy came along when he did to help get things cleaned up."

Normally, something like this would have prompted Danny and Kieran to exchange another look, but for the moment they were distracted; standing behind the wheelchair, invisible to his father, Jimmy Jr. had his thumbs in his ears, and was waggling his fingers and sticking his tongue out. Even the bears seemed to find this outrageous, but of course neither one would say a word.

Not Kieran though; THIS was just  _too_  much.

"Now wait a minute, Uncle James…"

That was far as he got before his uncle raised the blackthorn stick and brought it down in a sidelong slash.

Danny winced at the sound of the impact, but otherwise managed to keep his face straight. (Jimmy Jr. looked like a kid who'd just found a brand-new bicycle under the Christmas tree.)

" _Mister_  McCrodon if you please." The Mister growled, rising halfway from the chair to lean over his prostrate nephew. His voice was low and surprising matter-of-fact…which Danny and Kieran knew only meant that he was REALLY mad.

"No one calls me James," The Mister continued, a teacher correcting a particularly slow student, "or Jim, or Jimmy, or Uncle James. No one, period; not anyone in The Company, not either one of my brothers," Here he finally turned up the volume, "and especially not my  _cousin's kid_! You got that, punk?"

He rolled the chair backwards and waited for Kieran to get up again.

Then he pointed with the stick once more, first at him, then at Danny.

"Never forget, the only reason you two idiots aren't in jail is 'cause of ME. I got you out…and I can put youse right back in again with one phone call. And when I hear about you picking on my boy, it gives me an  _itchy_ dialing finger…unnerstan'?"

Before they could answer, Junior tapped his father on the shoulder, looking quizzical.

" _Dialing_  finger dad?"

'Dad' groaned and threw a paw in front of his son's face

"Shaddup!"

Junior shut up quickly and moved backwards, while his father turned an icy glare on Danny and Kieran…both of whom were struggling not to laugh.

"Unnerstan'?" he repeated, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yes, Mister McCrodon." Kieran answered, looking down and wincing.

"Yes boss." Danny nodded, slowly.

"Good," their boss nodded back, satisfied for the moment. He turned in his chair, speaking to Jimmy Jr., "Son, why don't you run along? I got some other business to talk over with these guys."

His voice was soft, almost affectionate…a tone which would have had either his two bodyguards scrambling out the door right NOW..

Not Junior though, "But  _Dad_ …!"

"Run along," his father said again, this time with an edge to his voice.

"Yes, sir." His son answered, and then sulked out the door with his tail dragging…but not before offering Danny and Kieran a farewell smirk of triumph.


	2. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The backpack's purpose is revealed as Danny and Kieran make their preps and voice their misgivings.
> 
> Their misgivings are well justified, because outside the club an unseen paw is also hard at work.

  **Disclaimer:** Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws

* * *

  **The Fire Triangle -- A Zootopia Fanfiction**

** Prologue – Escape From Zoo York**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

No sooner had Jimmy Jr. gone out the door, than a remarkable change came over his father. No longer petty and petulant, The Mister turned instantly cool and professional. As if to confirm this change of attitude, his two bear-bodyguards immediately assumed the 'at ease' position.

"Awrite, everything ready for Dylan's trip?" he asked.

It was as if the incident with his son had never happened…on his end, anyway. Not so for Kieran, who rubbed gingerly at his face while answering his uncle.

"It's all here." He answered, hoisting the Manila envelope, "Air tickets, maps, specially modified cell-phone, spending cash, prepaid debit card, mirrored sunglasses, and the placard of course."

"Good, good." His uncle nodded and then turned his attention to Danny, "An' what about youse? Got the stones all set to go?"

The swift fox answered him while holding up the backpack.

"Locked and loaded, Mister McCrodon."

The Mister rolled his wheelchair closer.

"I wanna see."

Danny zipped open the pack, removing a bright yellow box, decorated with a multi-hued tartan and the outline of a castle on a high hill.  A cellophane window on the left side revealed something that looked like 5 long pieces of sidewalk artists' chalk.

The label read,  **'** **Rosseal's**  EDINBURGH CASTLE ROCK CANDY' and a small, oval sticker on the top right corner proclaimed, "To: Bobbi."

Danny passed the box to The Mister, who turned it over in his paws, studying it minutely.

"Nice work," he said, not looking up, "You can't tell it from the real thing."

Danny couldn't help chuckling in spite of himself. "That's coz it IS the real thing—original packaging." He allowed himself a wink, adding, "Slightly different contents of course."

"I especially like that little window on the side," The sea-mink nodded, passing it back to him, "If some MSA copper gets curious, he can see without opening the box that's it's only candy …but at the same time, he can't see  _everything_  that's in there."

Danny nodded back and Kieran decided to throw a couple of cents of his own; he pointed to the sticker in the corner of the box. "And because it's a kid's present, they'll be none too eager to open it anyways, eh? No one wants to look like a heartless yob.""

"Wanna see how it works?" Danny asked, anticipating the boss's next question.

"Yeah."

Danny drew out a small, twist-wrapped piece of the confection from his pocket, removing the cellophane and popping it into his mouth. He spent the next few seconds rolling it around his cheeks, and then spit a tiny object into his paw, offering it to The Mister.

The Mister leaned in closer, squinting. There, nestled in the swift fox's paw, was a brilliant, sparkling gem.

"That's only a zircoonia of course." Kieran told him, pointing at the stone, "But it gives ye the idea of how the set-up works. Our boys in the pharma labs did a cracker of a job."

"But will it get through an airport scanner okay?" The Mister asked, taking the gem between his thumb and forefinger and holding it up before his right eye. It was the proverbial $64 Thousand Dollar question, and Danny had a ready answer up his sleeve.

"Checked it out myself, Mister McCrodon; slipped a C-Note to an X-ray tech over at Bulleview. If HE couldn't spot the stone, then you  _better_  believe neither can some MSA hack."

"Excellent!" The Mister dropped the zircoonia back into the swift fox's pawlm, clapping his paws like a kit at a puppet show. It was truly an amazing transformation; a moment ago, The Company boss been halfway ready to ice Danny and Kieran; now, he was practically  _beaming._

But then he turned serious once again.

"Awrite, now listen up; change of plans. I want Dylan packed up and on his way to La Guanaco Airport within the hour."

"No problem Boss," Danny answered quickly, "only, mind if I ask why?"

He braced himself as soon as he said it, but this time, The Mister's mood remained at room temperature.

"Fair question," he answered, nodding over at the conference table, "It's coz I want him safely out of here by the time the sit-down starts…just in case our new 'friends' decide they wanna pull a fast one."

His response prompted Danny and Kieran to exchange another look…but this time one of relief.

…until their boss added, "When we give him up, it's gonna be on OUR terms, not theirs."

In reaction to this, a jolt of current seemed to flow through Danny and Kieran; both of them stiffened and the swift fox's tail became an instant frizz-brush.

It was something not lost on their boss and his irritation came back almost at once.

"You got a problem with that?" he asked coolly, leaning forward on the arms of his wheelchair.

Danny and Kieran didn't return his gaze, instead peering over and past their boss's shoulder. Both of his bodyguards were wearing hard faces and had their paws inside their jackets; what The Mister was REALLY saying was, 'You _ain't_  got a problem with that!'

With a supreme effort, they forced themselves to meet his eyes.

"No, Boss."

"No, Mister McCrodon,"

"Glad to hear it." The Mister answered with half a sneer, and then beckoned with a pair of fingers to his bodyguards, signaling that the audience was over.

The moment his back was turned, Danny and Kieran exchanged another look, only now it was a look of near despair.

That expression was still on Kieran's face a few moments later, when he stood in the Males' washroom, splashing water onto his face from a basin. It was a large-rodent sink; a mite too small for a sea-mink, and he had to crouch down in front of it to reach the faucets. For some reason, the image reminded Danny of penitent kneeling before an altar, but he wisely chose to keep that observation to himself; his sometime-sidekick was agitated enough as it was.

"That punk, Junior," the sea-mink hissed, baring his teeth at the mirror above the sink to check for damage and patting gingerly at the spot where the blackthorn stick tagged him, "If he wasn't The Mister's only son…"

"Well, he IS the boss's only son." Danny Tipperin observed, tartly, from behind, "And he's the only son The Mister is  _ever_  gonna have; so like it or not, we're stuck with him." Older than the sea-mink by half a decade, he was also a few years more jaded.

Kieran sighed and watched the water drain away, head sagging between his shoulders. Danny knew what that meant, the sea-mink was about to go all philosophical on him.

"Ah, Danny boy…how'd we ever come to this, eh? You with your skills and me with mine…doin' work that we hate, and for a sod we like even less."

Danny folded his arms and leaned against the washroom wall, crossing one leg over the other.

"Well, the money for one thing." He said, and it was true. The Mister might be as mean as an acid-wash when it came to giving out orders, but when it came to giving out favors, he was one rung below Santa Claws…especially with his soldiers.

Kieran answered him by spitting noisily into the sink.

"Chicken scratch!" he chirred, turning around. "Oi could make ten times what me Uncle pays, if I was workin' fer Microsloth or Amooseon…D'yer know Oi still get offers every now and again?" He raised a finger at the swift-fox, "and don't tell me _you_  couldn't do better, working as an honest mammal, boyo. Why, why do we stay here?"

Danny held back his answer until he was sure the sea mink had run out of steam. Then he shrugged.

"You know why Druid, you heard what your uncle said back there. He's the only thing keeping us from going to back prison."

The sea-mink looked like he wanted to bite somebody

"Aye, an' fer crimes we didn't commit!" He expelled the words like venom, "If you hadn't been a fox, and if MY species weren't part o' the  _weasel_  family..."

Danny pushed himself off the tiled wall, one eyebrow higher than the other.

"All right Kieran…what's  _really_  bugging you?"

The sea-mink appeared to fold up halfway and deflate. It was as if he'd just taken another shot from his uncle's blackthorn stick…this time to the gut.

Then he looked up.

"You know what 'tis, Danny…an' ye can stop pretending you're not bothered by it as well. The Mister's goin' to do it; he's goin' sell out Dylan fer 'is thirty pieces of silver."

"For a lot more than that," the swift-fox observed, but even to him it sounded lame.

"Aye, an' you know what they'll  _do_  to him, boyo?" Kieran had straightened up again, and was holding up the laptop case, like Exhibit 'A', "Well I do, I never told yer half the stuff I found inside their database." He shook his head, "How can he do it, boyo? I always knew me uncle was heartless, but his is a new low even for  _him_. After Dylan saved Junior from that pack of hooligans, THIS is how the sod pays him back?"

Danny nodded but said nothing. The Druid was back on his soap-box again and there was nothing to do but wait and ride it out.

"Oi always knew was that Dylan'd be clever on the computer," he went on, "an' he hasn't disappointed me. Sweet mum-o'-mercy, he's halfway ready to join The Circle right  _now._  And you saw how he handled himself against those yobs what was beatin' on Junior, right? Well, that was before I started teaching him some o' mixed-martials. Right now, I think he could have  _taken_  one of those punks, not the one in charge of course, but one of his stooges at least." He hastily qualified his statement and then raised an eyebrow. "What about the weapons trainin', how's Dylan comin' with that, by the bye?

The sudden segue caught Danny by surprise, and for half a click, he didn't know how to answer.

Finally he told Kieran, "Pretty good actually; darn good shot for someone who's never handled a piece before and he picked up on how to do a field strip almost right away." He frowned inwardly. Yes, Dylan had some talent with weapons alright, but he absolutely hated them; more than once he'd tried to beg off a training session, and Danny would have allowed it—except they'd both had the Mister leaning over their shoulders.

However he wasn't about to say that here and now; the boss wouldn't  _like_  it if he heard the swift-fox had been talking behind his back—and Danny had been in Dutch with The Mister one too many times already this morning.

Instead, he said, "Of course that's only with the small-caliber weapons. Once we move on to the heavier stuff, might be different story; you follow what I'm bringing out?"

Kieran just nodded as if he's expected no less.

"Right and that's not even mentionin' the way he plays the…"

It was as far as he got before Danny threw up a paw in a 'Stop' gesture.

"Yeah, yeah Druid, I know all that. What I  _don't_  know is what you think we oughta DO about it."

The sea-mink didn't answer immediately, instead looking around for a second, as if to make sure no one else was nearby…and then he pulled a thumb-drive from his pocket, holding it up for Danny's consideration.

At once the swift-fox felt his teeth setting on edge; he recognized the accessory and he knew where Kieran was headed with his argument.

"Not much WE can do, boyo." The sea-mink murred, lowering his voice," but there's something Dylan can do fer  _himself_  isn't there? He makes the swop and doesn't come back."

But Danny was already shaking his head.

"Never work, buddy. Even with a new identity; he'll be all by himself in a strange city…with no money."

Kieran looked away, embarrassed for a second…a guy who just met his high school crush after fifteen years and didn't recognize her. Danny Tipperin was not surprised by this; in fact, it was exactly what he'd expected.

He let out a groan that was nearly a scream.

"G'eeeh! You're not seriously gonna suggest that Dylan keep the cash for  _himself!"_ Kieran 'The Druid' McCrodon might have been a legend in the hacker community, but in the flesh and fur, he was sometimes about as difficult to read as the average billboard.

"Wellll not _all_  of it, boyo," he started to say—before Danny slapped a paw against the tiles, making a flat, cracking noise.

"Aggggh, grrrr, I knew it. Don't even go in that general direction, Druid! If Dylan touches even so much as a penny of that money, The Mister won't just have him iced, he'll wanna make an EXAMPLE out of him." He poked himself in the chest with a thumb and in a quick, fluid motion, morphed the gesture into a pair of fingers aimed at Kieran. "And guess which guys are gonna  _get_  that job. No! Thanks!"

There were actually about a hundred other arguments against Kieran's suggestion, but Danny knew that this one was the trump card.

It wasn't; instead of being cowed, Kieran raised his fists on either side of his head.

"Sweet mother o' mercy, I can't believe I'm hearin' this! How can you just stand there, and…?"

"Coz I got bigger problems, Druid!" the swift fox snapped, deciding enough was enough, "We ALL do." He jabbed two fingers upwards at the ceiling, towards the dance floor where the other members of The Company would soon be gathering for the sit-down, along with their 'guests.'

"It ain't just Dylan who's being sold out," he said, too angry to give a darn WHO might overhear him now, "it's  _all_  of us…The Mister included, and he don't even realize it, that's the worst part."

 _That_  finally shut Kieran up…because now he got it.

The swift fox dropped his paw and rolled on. As usual when he was agitated, his good grammar had all but deserted him.

"What the heck is your uncle THINKING…that life is like some comic-book movie, where every time a business mammal is dumb enough to cross a gangster, he gets his head handed to him? Get real, already! You been inside this guy's data-base? Well,  _I've_  been in his PRESENCE. This ain't some lame, bowler-hat guy we're dealin' with over here, this is the LAST animal we should try and do a deal with," He stared into a corner, adding softly, under his breath, "much less try to plinkin' blackmail."

Now Kieran was staring at _him._

"Yer…scared Danny?" He phrased it not as question, but as a statement of disbelief; Danny 'The Danaconda' Tipperin—afraid? That wasn't possible...was it?

The swift fox sighed and seemed to deflate.

Then he looked at the sea mink with big, bleak eyes.

"Yeah Druid," he answers quietly. "We're in  _way_  over our head with this outfit—and did I ever mention who our new, little buddy's top enforcer is? That wolverine I told you about."

The sea-mink took a quick step backwards, nearly tripping over his tail, the way Junior had earlier.

" _That_  bloke?!"

"THAT bloke," Danny confirmed, nodding.

"Have yer told that to the Mister, then?" Kieran asked him, in a voice that said he already knew the answer.

The swift fox answered him in that same bitter, half-despairing groan, "Only about a hundred times, But every time he just waves me off like it don't matter; he says this deal is too big an opportunity to let go, but he ain't foolin' me. This whole thing is really about payback for Crazy Wez, and you know what your uncle's like when things get fursonal."

"Aye, like a runaway freight train with no brakes," Kieran sighed and rubbed his face with both paws. "Oi but yer right though aren't yer? Dylan's problems aren't even  _close_  to the worst of it."

He took in a deep breath and punted the ball to the swift fox. "Just the same, what do we do?"

Danny managed a wan smile.

"Well, this sit-down may be a bad idea," he said, "but at least The Mister's handling it right; refusing to meet anywhere but on OUR turf and making sure we got all our guys here as back-up." He held up the backpack, "And  _especially_  wantin' to make sure Dylan's nowhere near this place when the meet goes down. So let's go get him ready and get him to the airport. Once he's safely outta here, maybe then we can figure a way around this mess."

"Right then, let's go." Kieran nodded and followed the swift fox out of the washroom and in the direction of the basement stairs.

* * *

 Just up the street from Finagle’s, a mammal-hole cover stood open, surrounded by a barricade of orange-plastic mesh, with spaces that became progressively smaller the closer it came to the ground, (to keep any smaller species from slipping through.)

In the tunnel below, a mole in a hardhat, headset, and reflective vest was standing atop on a cherry-picker with his head-lamp aimed at an open junction box.  He consulted a tablet fixed to the railing for a second, then traced among the wires and connections with his finger, finally letting it come to rest at red over a bright blue fiber-optic cable.   With a quick nod, he reached over and picked up a pair of wire-cutters—which for him were the size of bolt cutters—and fitted them around the cable’s width.

Two blocks distant, a pine marten in an identical hardhat was perched high atop a microwave relay tower.  Briefly consulting a diagram, he unplugged one of the USB cables, and replaced it with a different one. 

Then he spoke into a bluefang headset.

On a warehouse rooftop not far away, a bighorn sheep with no hardhat, (no need, given his species) was just finishing up a fine-tune adjustment on something resembling a satellite TV dish—except for it’s odd shape, something like a stretched-out hexagon.

Satisfied with this bit of handiwork, the sheep carefully corrected the aim, focusing the dish on the roof of the pearly-white structure with the blue banner, directly across the parking lot from his position.

After consulting a tablet of his own, he made one more small adjustment, and then spoke into his own bluefang, this one worn clipped to the end of his right-side horn.

In a park close by, a young jaguar of middle-school age was just then launching a six-prop drone into the air and watching it fly away.   There was no one else nearby, which was a good thing; otherwise they might have wondered how a kid that age ever got his paws on such an esoteric-looking drone; it appeared to be almost mil-spec. 

In fact, it was more than merely mil-spec, a favorite gadget of the ZSA—but also available commercially if you had the right connections; at a hundred yards distance, the tiny aircraft slowed and then stopped, hovering in midair, awaiting further instructions. 

They would not be long in coming.  Down below, the young jag had already seated himself at a picnic table before an open laptop and was plugging in a joystick-controller that would have done an attack helicopter proud.  With that task completed, he donned a headset similar to the one worn by the others, but with a small, crystalline window-attachment, held directly in front of his right eye.

Then he reached for the joystick, at the same time typing commands with his other paw.

A second later, the drone moved off at high speed.  When it came to a halt again, the laptop screen was showing an overhead view of Finagles’ front entrance—where a gloss-black limo had just pulled up to the curb.  At the rear of the vehicle, a pronghorn antelope could be seen opening the door for his passenger.  After a short second, a sea mink in an elegantly tailored overcoat made a fast exit from the vehicle, pulling his collar about him as he scurried towards the door on all fours.

Quick, but not quick enough; at once, drone’s the camera zoomed in on his face, and a lattice-work of lines imposed itself on his features.  A tenth of a mouse’s heartbeat later, a flashing name appeared on the laptop screen, with two lines of text etched underneath.

 ** Gerard, ‘Gerrymander’ McCrodon **

**Head of Company bootleg pharmaceuticals operation**

**Target Priority: 1**

The feline reached up and touched his left ear, speaking into a blufang headset…in a voice much too deep for an adolescent leopard, but just about right for an _adult_ Margay with slightly altered facial markings.

“Red-Fire One, this is Drone Op 2.   Sir, The Mister’s youngest brother has arrived on target, face-rec confirms.  Over.”

On another nearby rooftop, two thick, heavy paws, with curved dagger-claws, were wrapped around a pair of hi-tech binoculars.  They were an asymmetrical pair; while the left paw was a dark, midnight brown, the other was a chalky, burnt ivory white.

And now the binoculars lowered to reveal a wedge-shaped, black-furred muzzle and a pair of dark, penetrating eyes, ringed around by a thin line of fur, the color of tarnished brass.  The fur above the fringe was a dark, dirty-brown fur, covering a skull shaped like an armored dome, topped by a pair of short, spoon-shaped ears.  When the wolverine spoke into his own headset, his tone was deep, but also measured and slow; in fact, he sounded almost bored.  Even so there was an unsettling quality to his voice, like the first, faint rumble of an approaching thunderstorm.

“Drone 2, acknowledged.  Red-Fire 1, out.”

The white-pawed wolverine ended the transmission and then spoke into the headset a second time.   This time he did not bother with a call-sign.

“Phone access, speed dial…”

 A moment later a smart-phone nestled in a charging cradle commenced to play the opening notes from the song, ‘Kill The Beast’.  (A _very_ private joke.)

On the third note, a blunt-fingered paw reached for the cell and then a large, shadowy figure began to speak, dispensing with any greeting.

“Whitepaugh?  Go.”

Like his underling, the unseen figure spoke in a baritone profundo…but with a melodious, nearly operatic timbre.  Had anyone been listening, they would have concluded at once that this individual, however he was, must be capable of delivering one stem-winder of a stump speech, (and they’d have been right.)

“Sir,” the wolverine spoke in a crisp, even voice, “I’m pleased to report that the digital lockdown is in place and all fursonell are standing by.  The first of The Company’s inner circle arrived less than two minutes ago.”

“Good,” the figure sat back in his wing-back chair, idly drumming his fingers on the hardwood desktop in front of him. “I leave it in your capable paws, Whitepaugh.  Just be certain that you keep in mind our top two priorities.”

The wolverine stiffened, as if this was all news to him…and part of it was.

“Yes sir, I am aware of our first priority—rest assured, he won’t escape—but what is the second priority, if may ask?”

Inside the dimly-lit office, the paw holding the cell-phone tightened its grip and a pair of long, sharp incisors became exposed; the voice took on a serrated edge.

“The Mister—I want an example made, a message sent:  ‘THIS is what happens to anyone foolish enough to run an extortion scheme on _me.’_   See that it’s done.”

For the first time since his arrival on the rooftop, the wolverine smiled, lips pulling back to reveal an abattoir, a set of heavy, razor-sharp teeth that by rights should have belonged to an animal twice his size and half again his bulk.

“With _pleasure,_ sir,” He answered snarling hungrily.

“Very good, Whitepaugh.” The unseen figure nodded, “and now I think of it, I want you to have my cell-phone patched into the helicopter’s PA system.  I believe I want to send that message FURSONALLY.” 

The order, which had started on an almost jolly note, concluded on a vicious one.

“Done and done sir,” the wolverine nodded…and without another word the call was terminated and the figure in the office settled down in his chair again, becoming nearly invisible in the artificial twilight.

* * *

Down in the basement of Finagles the atmosphere was even darker than the office, everything black and still…but then the lyrics to a song could be heard, heard, echoing through the underground passageways.

_“In the dark, who can see his face?_

_In the dark, who can reach him?_

Several seconds later, a line of randomly spaced, bare bulbs, strung along the ceiling, flickered unsteadily to life, bathing the corridor in dull, yellow light and illuminating the figures of Danny Tipperin and Kieran McCrodon.  Also visible was the flotsam and jetsam of the Company’s various enterprises, piled against the wall, floor to ceiling in a random pattern; old and unused filing cabinets, open cartons of empty pill-bottles, half-destroyed practice targets, and weapons cases with broken latches.

As the corridor came fully alight, Danny could hear something—actually many somethings—skittering away underfoot.  They were going to need to fumigate again.

 _“If someone else don’t beat us to it,”_ the swift thought with stifled shudder, and then beckoned for Kieran to follow him.

Three yards onward they passed the open door of a room stacked with small arms of nearly every type.  Ten feet later, they moved past another room, this one fitted with a tight, glass door, behind which were ensconced a triple row of blade-server racks, all of them winking red and green.

The next door they came to was solid like the first and closed like the second; it was here that Kieran stopped and spoke up.

“If ye don’t mind boyo, I need to make a quick check on somethin’…just in case.”

“Go ahead,” said the swift fox, who did mind but who also understood the necessity.  Kieran couldn’t be too careful, not today.

He watched as the sea-mink turned towards the entrance; a plain, sliding, black-painted fire-door with a counterweight.  Beside it was plastic, flip-up hood, like the covering of a fire alarm button—which the sea-mink now raised to reveal a card-reader and a keypad.  It was actually a mite too small for his species, and that was just how he wanted it.  If that made access for _him_ difficult, it would make it well-nigh impossible for any of the gang’s larger mammals—say Zeke Zinneman or Benny Beerbohm.  It was just one more of the little security touches for which Kieran McCrodon was well noted.

In keeping with that, he had Danny turn away before inserting his card and entering his access number.  There were no corresponding beeps as he punched in the code; beeps could be recorded and memorized for later use.

He pressed the **#** button, and the counterweight dropped as the door slid silently open.  At the same time, the interior of the room came alight in a soft, white, pastel glow.

Then the two of them stepped through the door and into the boiler room (Kieran’s name for the place).

The chamber was about the size of railroad car and could almost have almost passed for a wine-cellar; LED-lighting was commonplace in such enclosures after all.

Almost!  Since when did wine cellars have walls papered in copper netting, ditto for the ceiling?  (It was also under the floorboards, although that wasn’t visible.)  Arrayed against the facing wall was a line of ten computer workstations—no, make that eleven; Kieran had added on another one since Danny’s last visit here.  The air inside the room was dry and pleasantly cool.

Whenever he came in here, the sheer magnitude of the set up never failed to take Danny Tipperin’s breath away.  Although not a computer wiz himself, he knew enough to recognize a cyber-masterpiece when he saw it.

To look at the room, one might think it was the domain of an entire crew of hackers; it wasn’t; Kieran ran this shop alone, assisted occasionally assisted by Dylan, but otherwise, it was him, himself, and nobody else, Kieran McCrodon the Druid.

That did not necessarily mean the sea-mink _worked_ alone however.  Every single one of those workstations was hooked either to a separate DSL line, or to a Wi-Fi receiver, concealed on the roof of the club amongst a flower-bed of satellite dishes, every receiver fitted with a encryption device.  (Some of the stations had both DSL _and_ Wi-Fi.)

Add to that, every single one of the lines was routed through a different server, all of them located in foreign countries, mostly in Asia or Eastern and Central Ewerope, but all of them with one thing in common: these were nations that did NOT permit scrutiny of their internet resources by offshore entities.

This was how Kieran kept in touch with his crew of hackers, an assemblage known collectively as The Circle.  Danny knew practically nothing about them individually, but a great deal about the group as a whole.

They were a motley crew to say the least, practically every single one of them was a different species and/or background, from the proverbial kit in his mother’s basement to button-down employees of hi-tech corporations.  Other than that, Danny knew precious little of their histories, which of them were natives, how many resided offshore; even the exact number of Circle members was a mystery to the swift fox..  (His best guess was seven, possibly eight.) 

When it came to their fursonalities however, he was better informed on the subject.  For instance, the members’ motives for joining The Circle were as diverse as their lifestyles.  Some of them were in it for the money, some of them were looking to pad their online resumes, (“Yeah, I worked with The Druid!”) and one or two of their number were just plain anarchists, eager to cause mayhem whenever and wherever the opportunity arose..

But by far the biggest reason that most of them had pledged their fealty to The Circle was in response to the great siren song of all hackers, the thrill of the forbidden; the rush of getting inside a supposedly impenetrable database and then getting out again without being detected.

“That’s somethin’ the Coppers will never understand, Danny boy.”  Kieran had once explained over lunch at Lambardi’s Pizza, “Fer every computer-breach that results in data bein’ compromised, oi’d say there’s at least five happening where _nothin’_ gets touched.”

When commiserating with the Circle members individually, the sea-mink always used one of the workstations along the wall, rotating from one to the next between contacts.

When a quorum of members was required, however, he always made used of Big Brenda, his own private workstation at the far end of the room.

She was formidable lady, Miss Brenda—three oversized, flat screen monitors arranged in a pyramid formation, backed up by a slew of state of the art processors and more memory than a dozen herds of elephant.  In terms of computing power, she was Hoofer dam while the average home-comp desktop was a backyard wind-turbine by comparison.  For sheer speed, she was a formula-one race-car to the average gamer’s go-kart computer.

Big Brenda was also Kieran McCrodon’s fursonal sanctuary and great keep.  Per the Mister’s explicit orders, no animal in the Company, other than himself had access to her—with one exception and since the sea-mink’s uncle had no interest in tangling with _any_ computer, she was basically all his.

Now Kieran seated himself in his task chair and spoke his name  Brenda immediately sprang to life, asking for his password.  Danny turned away again while the sea-mink entered it, and when he turned back, he saw lines of code on one of the screen that meant nothing to him but that he knew Kieran understood implicitly.   He was on the computer for perhaps three or four minutes before shutting down again.

“Just makin’ sure, if there’s trouble, the boys’ll all be safe,” he said.

Kieran McCrodon always referred to the members of The Circle as ‘his boys’, even though Danny was certain that at least a third of them were female.

The sea-mink had come to his nickname The Druid by way of his phenomenal memory.  A quick glance at page of code was all he needed to memorize it perfectly.  (Danny had once heard him flawlessly recite back a magazine article he’d last read when he was six; a bet that won the sea-mink a cool grand.)

With that in mind, he kept any and all sensitive information about his crew inside his head.  Even a hacker skilled enough to penetrate Brenda, (as IF!) would find no clue to their identities inside her database.

But that didn’t mean The Circle members were equally careful of _themselves,_ and that was what Kieran had been up to for the last few minutes, erasing any tracks they might have left.  (The fact that he had finished so quickly indicated they hadn’t.)

“Data dump’s ready?” Danny asked him, nodding over the sea-mink’s shoulder.   It was most likely a silly question; Kieran, had probably made sure six times already, but being as the stolen data on that computer was the only thing standing between the Company and a cataclysm it was one he felt still needed an answer..

“Ready to drop.” The sea mink told him with a solemn nod; he too understood the gravity of the situation.

“What about that?” Danny queried, pointing to the laptop.

“Checked it out before yer got here.”  Kieran patted the side of the bag.

Danny nodded again and aimed a thumb at the door.  “Then let’s go get Dylan ready.”

When they entered the hallway again, the singing had stopped, but the music was carrying on as an instrumental, Karaoke piece, fronted by a live guitar solo…which Danny now recognized as the bridge from the old Richard Tomcat tune, ‘Shoot Out the Lights.’

“He’s been practicing.” The swift fox observed, an odd note of pride in his voice

Kieran grinned and nudged him in the ribs.

“Kick-tail, boyo.”

Danny almost grinned back…but then the sea-mink added, almost under his breath, “And we’re goin’ t’ turn him over to THAT lot, aren’t we?”

The swift-fox responded by shooting him a dirty look…and getting only halfway there before turning away, unable to meet his sidekick’s eyes.

“Let’s just get this done, okay?”

As they moved along the corridor, the music became progressively louder…only where the heck was it coming from?  The nearest doorway was six yards behind them and there was nothing in front but bare, brick walls and a sharp, left turn.

Instead of making that turn, Danny and Kieran ceased walking and stepped closer to the wall, where the swift fox knocked with the flat of his paw.  Even though it was supposedly solid brick, he was answered with a hollow, echoing sound.

“Dylan?” he called, cupping a paw to his muzzle, “Dylan, it’s Danny.  Time to get ready.”

The solo just continued unabated.

“Must have the cones on.” His companion observed, offering an idle shrug.

Danny nodded and began exploring the masonry with a fingertip.  After several seconds of fumbling, he pulled back the front of a ‘brick’, revealing a tarnished brass handle. 

Behind him Kieran’s voice assumed a cheery air. “D’ye know I finally found out why they built this hidey-hole, boyo?  S’where the good mammals of Zoo York hid their jewelry an’ suchlike, durin’ The Revolution.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s really interesting, Druid.”  Danny answered…in a voice that said he couldn’t care less.  He pulled the handle and turned it, and a section of the wall swung outwards into the hallway.

The swift fox was able to negotiate the opening with ease, but Kieran was obliged to duck as he entered the room, the entrance having obviously been fashioned for a smaller species than a sea-mink.  As they passed through the door, the music volume increased geometrically and Danny had to shout to be heard.

“Dylan!  Hey, shut it down for a minute! ”

The animal seated on the bed ceased playing at once and quickly pulled off a pair of triangular headphones, (cones.)

“Oops sorry, Danny.”  He answered, looking a little sheepish.

The swift fox smiled and flipped a pawlm back and forth.

“Don’t worry about it kid,” he said, and it was an apt form of address.

Because Dylan Yeats WAS a kid.


	3. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best laid plans of foxes and sea mink...
> 
> It seems Danny Tipperin isn't the only one with misgivings...and that some pests are a lot harder to get rid of than you think.

**Disclaimer:** Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

* * *

**The Fire Triangle - A Zootopia Fanfiction**

**Prologue – Escape From Zoo York**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

 

In fact, Dylan Yeats wasn't all that much older than Nick Wilde had been the night he tried to join the Junior Ranger Scouts—two, maybe three years older at most. It made the guitar lying across his lap looks almost comically large; hard to believe that he was the animal playing so well only a few seconds ago.

Dylan was also a silver fox, not a species in its own right, but a color phase of the red fox. Like his red-furred cousins, he had deep-black legs and forearms, but at the point any similarity between Dylan Yeats and a red fox was purely coincidental; his underside, tail, ears and muzzle were all the same obsidian hue as his points; the rest of his fur was a bright gloss gray with black undercurrents, (giving his coat the appearance of dark silver, hence the name of his color scheme.)

But the young fox's most striking feature was his eyes. Silver foxes usually have dark brown eyes but his were yellow-amber in color, (actually the most common eye-color for a red fox.) Set against the blackness of his face however, they appeared to glow like twin furnace vents. It was a distinguishing characteristic to say the least—and it explained the pair of mirrored, wraparound sunglasses, nestled in the envelope beneath Kieran McCrodon's arm.

He had been outfitted for the occasion with a fresh, green-on-blue plaid shirt, a collarless, dark-blue undershirt, a denim jacket, and a clean, but well-worn pair of dungarees. No chains or rings adorned his furson…only a nondescript wristwatch.

In short, Dylan was dressed not to impress, but to blend in…no small feat since he was anything but your standard, run-of-the-mill adolescent fox.

Take the room where he lived for example; it looked nothing like the typical dwelling of a boy his age. One wall consisted entirely of bookshelves…half of which were stacked, not with young adult fiction as one might expect, but with much more esoteric material, Alexander Dumouse, Robert Louis Stevenison, and H. Rider Hoggard to name just three. The works of J.K. Growling were nowhere to be seen, but those of J.R.R. Molekein were all prominently on display.

And these were only the  _fictional_  volumes; the books occupying the other shelves were even more out of step with their owner's age; four rows of TEXTBOOKS, books on math, science, engineering, and several works of history. All of them were dog-eared and two were out or date, but they were schoolbooks nonetheless

On the other paw, the shelves lining the opposite wall were stacked with items much more consistent with a grade school kid, computer-gaming DVDs, a few action figures, an RC drone and assorted other knickknacks. The far end of the room was occupied by an impressive looking desktop computer, (courtesy of Kieran, and upon which the young fox was still only halfway proficient.) Next to this was a pair of small amplifiers, a pedalboard, and two guitar stands, one of them empty the other occupied by an acoustic six. The wall above was pasted with an assortment of posters showing several different rock guitarists, not thrashers or headbangers but ' _real_  players' as the young fox always referred to them, David Gilmare, Jeff Buck, George Hareson, and most prominently on display, an obscure but amazing folk-rock guitarist named Richard Tomcat.

The space was neat but not compulsively neat. As with any young mammal's room, a few things were out of place, but nothing had been left strewn on the floor, and the wastebasket had also been recently emptied.

"Sorry, didn't hear you guys." The young fox apologized, closing the laptop on the bed beside him and rolling up the headphone cords. "What's going on?"

By way of answer, Danny Tipperin held up the backpack, saying simply, "It's time."

Dylan responded by raising an eyebrow and tilting his head to one side.

"Wha…? How come, Danny? My flight doesn't leave 'til later on tonight."

"The Mister's orders." The swift fox answered, setting the backpack down on the bed, "He wants you out of here before the meeting starts; says we don't need the distraction. You follow what I'm bringing out?"

"Yeah, I getcha." the young fox nodded.

Beside him, Kieran was sniggering. On Dylan's other side, a black duffle-bag was also lying on the bed—packed, loaded, and zipped. The kid might not have been expecting this, but you better believe he was  _ready_  for it.

But then the sea-mink coughed into a fist and looked away. He knew the REAL reason Dylan was being sent away early…and what was going to happen to him upon his return.

Fortunately—or perhaps not so fortunately—the young fox didn't seem to notice. He hopped off the bed, asking, "What's this sit-down for anyway?"

His question caused Danny to turn even more shamefaced that Kieran; luckily for him Dylan had already turned to put his electric axe back on its rightful stand.

When he turned around again, his paws were lifted.

"Wait, yeah, I know…I don't NEED to know. Sorry, sorry…just forget I asked, okay."

"No sweat, kid." Danny answered taking a seat on the bed beside the young fox. He looked over at Kieran, "Druid?" and the sea-mink passed him the envelope. Danny opened it and began to transfer the contents to Dylan. The first thing he removed was a red-and-white neck-placard reading, **'UNACCOMPANIED MINOR'**  with all the pertinent information written below.

"You'll want to save puttin' that on until you get to the Airport' the swift fox told him, tapping it with a finger, "But be sure you have it on BEFORE you hit the MSA checkpoint."

"Right," Dylan nodded earnestly, reminding Danny forcefully that he was just a kid. Danny shook it off and proceeded to pass over the rest of the items, plane tickets, debit card, cash, ID card, etc. So far every item had been met with a simple nod. But then the swift-fox removed a small plastic bottle from the envelope, containing what look like six clear-glass capsules. Half of them were red…but the others were all a deep, sapphire blue, the unmistakable color of a certain poisonous flower.

When Dylan saw them, he shied back slightly, holding up a paw as if shielding his eyes from a piercing light.

"I-I don't want that stuff, Danny."

Before Danny could come down on him, Kieran quickly intervened.

"I know ye don't, boyo." He told the young fox, not unkindly, "But I'd think yer'd want even less NOT to have 'em in case there's trouble."

It was an unanswerable argument, and Dylan didn't try. Reluctantly— _very_  reluctantly—he took the bottle from Danny, handling it as gingerly as though the contents were nitroglycerine, and slipped it into a side-pocket of the backpack.

"You've got the pipe with you, kid?" the swift-fox asked him, taking over again. As long as they were on the subject of possible trouble, he might as well bring this up now.

"Got it right here." The silver fox said. He unzipped the duffle bag and pulled out what looked like a narrow steel flashlight. When he pressed the button however, instead of lighting up, the opposite end sprang outward, creating a telescoping baton.

Danny nodded, and decided to throw in a warning. "Whatever you do, don't bring that thing on the plane with you, kid; it in your checked luggage."

"Oh, I know that, Danny." Dylan answered, with an off-paw shrug. He compressed the baton back into a flashlight and returned it to the duffle.

"Just making sure," The swift fox nodded a second time, and then removed the last two items from the Manila envelope, a state-of-the-art cell phone and some gee-gaws strung together on a silver neck-chain, an Irish Harp, a Welsh Dragon, and small, odd looking key; its edge straight rather than serrated and perforated with holes like a section of Swiss cheese. He draped it over the young fox's neck and held up the cell, powering it on.

"Okay kid," Danny's voice had turned stony and solemn, "Let's go over it one last time. Soon as you land and clear the airport, what's your next move?

Dylan recited the answer as if delivering a school report; it made Kieran want to go find his uncle and punch his lights out, BLAST that sod!

"I take the metro to the central train-station, and find locker 125-D, and before I go for it, I check to make sure it's not being watched, and neither am I."

"Right," said Danny, and then passed the cell—and the ball—to Kieran.

"All right, an' then what, boyo?" the sea-mink asked.

"I enter the third number on the speed-dial and press the 'pound' key," Dylan enunciated his words as if to make certain they were understood, "that'll freeze up all the security cameras." He held up the weird looking key, "Then I open up the locker and look for another backpack inside."

"Right so far," Kieran told him with a short nod and then pointed to the backpack, still on the bed, "It'll be a bigger rucksack n' that one but nothing yer shouldn't be able to handle." (He said this as if forcing himself to believe it.)

"Gotcha," Dylan answered and then continued with his recitation, "Then I switch the packs over, and lock up, but first I make sure to remove the name-tag from the pack I'm leaving and clip it the one I'm picking up; it's got a trace chip inside. Then I dial that same number again and hit the 'star' key to re-start the security cameras. Then I just head back to the airport and come home."

He leaned back against the bed railing, looking from Kieran to Danny.

Neither one was able to meet his eyes; (it was his last line that did it.) Danny covered it by crossing his arms and looking serious.

"All right, now one more time, what happens if there's any kind of trouble?"

Dylan answered by taking the cell phone fromKieran and holding it aloft. "Anyone tries to rip me off or otherwise mess with me, I hit 'em fast and run for it. Then as soon as I'm far enough away to make the move I take my cell and punch in the first number on speed dial. And if I have to leave my other stuff, I do it."

"Right," said Kieran offering him thumbs up. "Now when ye dial that number yer won't need to say anything, we'll know it's you, and we'll know yer in trouble…and we'll get you some help." Exactly what kind of help he didn't say, instead telling the young fox, "There'll be a recorded message as well; it'll tell yer where to go an' what to do. Just follow the instructions and sit tight. You'll be safe until the cavalry arrives."

"Gotcha." the young fox said again. He began to stow the cell, but then Danny reached out and took him by the wrist.

"Not so fast, kid. That's only what happens if someone tries to ROB you; what's the procedure in case you get  _pinched?"_

Dylan grimaced and took out the phone again. Danny wanted to grimace too; he didn't like having to get harsh with the kid, even when it was called for—but better that than Dylan found himself in jackpot with no way out.

"I-I punch the _second_  number on the speed-dial list," he said, "the one for Mister Rodenberg's office."

Danny folded his arms. "And what IS that number?"

When the young fox didn't answer him right away, his manner became even more severe.

"You _need_  to know that number, kid. First thing the cops are likely to do if they take you down is grab your cell away from you. So look it up and write it down…right now! And then have it memorized by the time your plane touches down, okay?"

"Okay," Dylan answered him while hastily pulling a pen from another pocket.

No sooner did the young fox finally get his new cell put away than Kieran's phone commenced to play a short refrain by the Dropkick Furries.

_"The boyyyys are back_

_The boyyyys are back_

_The boyyyys are back…"_

The sea-mink answered in a clipped, no-nonsense voice.

"Yes, Mr. McCrodon? Aye sir," His eyes shifted towards Dylan for a second, "He's all ready to go, sir. We were just 'bout to…"

His words were cut off by a short wince…and then he offered the phone to Dylan, holding it out like a lit stick of dynamite.

"He wants t' speak to you, kid."

The young fox took the phone with an almost lazy expression on his face.

"Yes, Mr. McCrodon?" His voice was even more cool and precise than the Druid's had been a second ago.

The Mister's voice, by contrast, was like gravel dropped on sheet-metal

"Awrite kid, this is it, yer first big job for The Company. Make good on it, and I'll make it worth your while." He paused for a second, and when he spoke again, it was in the 'little-TOO-quiet' voice that everyone around him had learned to dread. "Mess up…and don't forget, I only need one phone-call to send your bushy little tail right back to Granite Point."

"I get it Mr. McCrodon, I won't mess up." The young fox answered him in voice betraying not a hint of emotion…but Danny could see that his tail was frizzing and shivering like divining rod.

"Mister threatened him with The Point, I bet," he muttered, throwing a sidelong glance at Kieran, who must have seen it too.

"Everyone's got their Kryptonite." The sea-mink answered, offering an enigmatic shrug.

Then Dylan was offering the phone back to Kieran, who regarded him for a second before placing it against his cheek. Even with that momentary lapse of the tail, he couldn't believe how calm the kid had sounded just now.

And now  _he_  began speaking in that same, neat, no-frills manner.

"Yes . Right sir, good idea. I'll get right on it. Yes sir. Bye sir."

"What is it?" Danny asked as the sea-mink returned the phone to its holster.

Kieran answered by holding up the lap-top bag.

"Another change o' plans, boyo. Now he wants to have this for himself during the meet."

Danny's eyes widened and his ears shot up and pointed at each other.

"Right where those guys can take it out! Is he…?

But Kieran was already raising a paw.

"Easy, boyo, he knows what he's doin' this time. He plans to have me out of sight during the meet, riding shotgun in the boiler room. That way, if anythin' goes wrong upstairs, I can run the data dump off Brenda an' have it done before anyone can get to me."

Danny halted his tirade, and then nodded both quietly and approvingly.

"Okay, yeah, that's better. Matter of fact, it's a _lot_  better."

He glanced quickly over at Dylan. The kid was standing mute and stone faced, not even looking at him. From hard experience, the silver fox knew when _not_  to listen..

"Let's go." He said finally, and the three of them exited the room.

Dylan had just finished locking up when Danny lifted his muzzle—suddenly, as if he'd just caught an unexpected scent.

"What is it then, Daniel?" Kieran asked.

Danny pointed to the laptop case.

"I just thought of something, Druid. Can you set up the data-dump so it'll happen automatically if our 'friends' take out the laptop?"

"Aye, it's that I can," the sea mink answered with a surprised look on his face—one that morphed quickly to chagrin, "Good idea, Danny-boy…and why didn't ** _I_**  think of it, eh?"

"Hey, I may not know one whole lot about computers," The swift fox grinned. "But you better believe I know tactics and…wha-what?"

Kieran had stopped, frozen in his tracks and was staring ahead, wide eyed…and then his frame began to shiver and his neck fur was standing up like hedgehog quills.

Danny followed his partner's gaze—and immediately felt his own fur starting to spike.

Twenty paces down the corridor, the door to the boiler room was standing wide open.

Kieran chirred and almost spat.

"Bloody…I thought I'd locked 'er."

"You did, I saw you." The swift fox answered and then the two of them dropped to all fours and rushed for the door with Dylan following close behind.

The first one to reach it was Kieran. All at once his lips pulled back, exposing his fangs.

"Oi, an' just what the Divvil d'yer think YOU'RE doin'?" he demanded, standing up rapidly and snarling.

A split-second later Danny was crowding past him through the doorway, and then HIS fangs were showing.

At the far end of the compartment, Jimmy Jr. was sitting at a computer console…but not just  _any_  computer console; Big Brenda. Had it been anyone else in the gang, Kieran would have been all over him ten seconds ago.

Unfortunately for the sea-mink, James McCrodon Jr. WASN'T anyone else…and even more unfortunately, he knew it.

"Hey, get lost, jerks…you don't bare your fangs at me!"

"And YOU don't come in  _here!"_  Danny snarled. Right now, he didn't care WHO this spoiled punk's father was.

Neither did his partner.

"And yer especially don't' come in here and get on THAT computer!" Kieran hissed, nearly beside himself with rage, "How'd you get the passwords anyways, goin' through yer Daddy's wallet again?"

"Bite my tail!" the younger sea-mink growled, and Kieran knew that  _was_  how he'd gotten them.

"What are you doin' on there anyways?" he demanded. Jimmy answered by giving him the 'red-eye'.

"Prolly trying to crack the code for Feral's Duty…AGAIN!" A smart, new voice had just joined the discussion, "And good luck with  _that_ , analog-boy!"

Jimmy turned in his chair and stabbed a finger at Dylan.

"Mind your own business, snot-face!"

The silver fox raised his palms and backed away…but mockingly, as if to say,  _'Oooooo, I'm SO scared.'_

Something about his manner pulled a tripwire inside of Junior and the sea-mink turned instantly whiny and petulant. He pointed at Dylan again, but this time with a shaky finger.

"How come HE'S allowed in here, huh? How come  _he_  gets to play on the computers and I don't?"

He was all but stamping his feet in frustration.

Kieran's voice turned crisp and even as he ticked off the reasons on his fingers.

"Number one, Dylan mostly knows what he's doin' on a computer; you don't. Number two, he never comes in here t' play…it's either to work or t' LEARN, d'yer understand? And number three," He drew himself up to his full height, "NO one's allowed to touch _that_  computer except for meself and yer da. And don't pretend yer don't know that, Junior. You were right there in the office when he gave the order." He bared his teeth again, open-mouthed this time, "Now get yer tail out of that chair before I haul yer out by the ears."

Jimmy exited the chair, but instead of looking scared, he appeared almost gleeful.

"Ohhhh, just WAIT 'til I tell my dad what you said; now you're  _really_  gonna get it!"

"Not when The Mister finds out you were messing with Big Brenda." Danny Tipperin growled, coming to his partner's aid, "He won't look the other way for someone ignoring his  _direct_  orders…not even you."

Jimmy Jr. just laughed scornfully.

"Only if my dad believes you," He sneered. "Go ahead, tell him I was on this comp…tell him I did  _this."_  He turned and began typing rapidly on the keyboard.

"STOP!" Kieran shrieked. Jimmy did, but then his smug expression doubled in intensity.

"Tell him jerks, go ahead. I'll deny everything and it's your word against mine." He leaned towards them, baring all HIS teeth. "And you know my dad…he's a SUCKER for anything _I_  tell him."

He settled back with folded arms and a superior expression …but then his face fell earthward when his own voice echoed back at him.

_"Only if my dad believes you."_

Jimmy Jr. turned; they all did. It was coming from one of the workstations. And there on the screen was James McCrodon Jr. in all his glory…planted before the 'forbidden' computer with that greasy smirk on his face.

Another console came to life, and the solo became a duet.

 _"Go ahead, tell him I was on this comp…tell I did_   **this."**  .

Then a third computer booted up, and the duet became a trio.

Off-screen, Kieran could be heard crying,  _"STOP!"_  (Though the sea-mink wasn't visible, the voice was unmistakably his.)

Now the trio became a quartet:

_"Tell him, jerks."_

And then a quintet:

_"Go ahead, I'll deny everything and it's your word against mine."_

And then _every_  workstation in the room was recalling Jimmy's little sermonette.

 _"And you know my dad…he's a SUCKER for anything_ **I** _tell him."_

Almost immediately the playback repeated itself.

Junior cast his eyes wildly about the room, until finally they settled on Dylan Yeats—leaning against a desk with legs crossed and arms folded, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

The sea-mink's scream was like a rake on a chalkboard, "Why you, dirty…!" He charged headlong at the silver fox with his claws bared…and was instantly brought up short when Dylan raised an index finger over the nearest keyboard.

"Nuh-UH, Jimmy…or the next monitor that gets this is the big-screen over the dance floor." Now it was  _his_  turn to show his fangs, "Which means it won't be just your dad who sees it; so will all the other guys…including your uncles."

Jimmy took a step backwards, and then a step forwards.

"Y-You wouldn't dare." He croaked, "My father would break you in half!"

Dylan just looked at him, unflinching, not moving a muscle

"Then that's what's gonna happen." He shrugged

"But not before something happens t'  _you,_  Junior." Kieran moved in quickly to offer his support. The fox-kid had held up great so far, but everyone knew what was coming next—Granite Point.

He said, "Mebbe Dylan'll end up on ice if he shows that to yer father with most of the gang watchin'. Huh, _probably_  he will. But don't think  _you'll_  just walk away from it either; when your Da hears you callin' him a  _sucker_ …Oooo, I wouldn't want to be in YOUR fur."

At the end of the room, Dylan smirked and pointed with two fingers at the image of Jimmy Jr. on a monitor screen.

"It's called, 'leverage', babe."

"Uh, door's over here, Junior." Danny was gesturing towards the opening while making a point of standing aside, "Don't let it flail your tail on the way out."

Jimmy looked from one mammal to the other with tears of outrage flecking his eyes.

Then he repeated his earlier threat.

"Just wait….jusssst wait, you'll be sorry."

He spun around and thrust a quivering finger at Dylan. "Especially YOU… _You're_  gonna end up…"

But just then the young sea-mink seemed to catch hold of himself—and then he was all but flying out the door.

Danny hit the button to close it, and then he, Dylan, and Kieran all shared a laugh, while the sea-mink tousled the top of the young fox's head…but it was a weary rather than a triumphant celebration.

Junior wasn't done with them yet.

* * *

 On the dance floor upstairs, the right side of the conference table was filling up rapidly; so far it was Company members only—and none of them were any too pleased with the accommodations.

"What the heck is THIS mess?" an angry, white tiger named Bryan 'Dicer' Burns demanded, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "I'd rather sit on rocks than this stupid excuse for a chair."

"Hey, at least _you_  didn't get splinters in your tail." A sea-mink in an expensive overcoat groused, turning to glare at his younger brother, "When you gonna tell us what this is all about, huh, MISTER McCrodon?" He spat out the word 'Mister' like 'jerkface.'

"Yeah, what Denis said," His other brother Gerry growled. He nodded in support of his sibling, and then waved a paw toward the empty side of the table. "And when's the other side supposed to get here, huh?"

"And who the heck  _are_  they anyway?" It was Denis again, "I got better things to do than sit here and play 'Where's Walrus?'"

This complaint was met by a rumble of concurrence from the others.

The Mister rapped on the table with his blackthorn stick, signaling for his bodyguards to move closer. "Awright, cool yer jets."

The hubbub subsided but not completely. A month, perhaps even a week ago, they would have shut up like moths, but not anymore; now, with every passing day the gang's discontent was becoming ever stronger and more vocal—and their boss couldn't help but notice.

But then little had ever gotten past _this_  sea-mink; James 'The Mister' McCrodon was practically a legend in the annals of organized crime.

In his youth, before he'd broken bad, he had been the Captain of a commercial fishing boat, the Selkie, out of New Bedfurred Mousachussetts. At the end of one particularly bad season, when it looked as if he might lose her, James McCrodon had been presented with the proverbial offer you can't refuse, a cool 50 Grand to smuggle a load of small arms across the ocean for the ZRA.

It was only after the delivery had come off (without a hitch) that McCrodon learned three things he hadn't known before agreeing to take the job.

First, the animal behind the venture had been none other than the notorious Pawston gangster James 'Whitey' Bullgoar, Second, the Selkie had been one of  _two_  boats the mobster had chartered for the venture—and the first one, the Volehalla had been intercepted in mid-ocean by Interpaw.

The third was that Bullgoar wanted to meet him, he'd been highly impressed by the sea-mink's acumen, and wanted to hire him on a full-time basis.

McCrodon soon found himself in charge of _all_  the Pawston Gangster's weapons smuggling operations. When Bullgoar was forced to abandon the rackets and go on the lamb, the sea-mink decided to strike out on his own, moving south to Zoo York City to set up operations.

No one expected him to last out the year.

It didn't work out like that, not at all; James McCrodon's rise to the top was nothing short of meteoric, within four years of his arrival in Zoo York, he had survived a gang war, three indictments—and he'd stopped counting the number of assassination attempts at six. By the end of year number five, he was the undisputed king of the east coast arms traders. He was not only tough and smart, but also brilliantly innovative, the first gangster to go digital, employing a team of hackers that allowed him to obtain end-user certificates and flyover rights where there none were to be had for any of his rivals. In this he was so successful he began selling the service to other weapons cartels, (but only to offshore entities, never to anyone who might cut into his  _own_  operations.)

Soon, he was branching out into other areas of criminal activity, online gambling, bootleg pharmaceuticals, bid rigging, shylocking, extortion, (both online and off,) plus a number of legitimate enterprises with Finagles as the crown jewel.

But his bread and butter was always arms trading, the racket he never forgot had put him where he was today.

He had also never forgotten the Cardinal rule he'd learned from working with Bullgoar, get yourself in bed with the law; make yourself a source of information on other crooks and the coppers will look the other way for just about anything else you get up to.

McCrodon not only heeded that advice, he actually went Bullgoar one better. As an arms trader, he was privy to the inside dirt on several terrorist organizations—and  _nobody_  in the underworld cared if you snitched out THOSE guys.

It all came out fantastically; after ten years in business, The Mister McCrodon was riding high, he had never spent more than 90 days behind bars, and owned a house in the Lambtons, a yacht in St. Martens, and even a castle in County Kildeere. He was a legend, a genius; that was what conventional wisdom said about him.

That was also then and this was now. Now his sterling reputation in the milieu had acquired several layers of tarnish.

It had begun in numerous, subtle ways. When McCrodon first become successful, he'd been more than happy to delegate authority and give his underlings free rein. ("I don't care how you get it done as long as ya get it done.) Soon, however, his soldiers had found him looking over their shoulders at every turn and countermanding their orders on an almost regular basis, until ultimately he was second guessing every decision and micromanaging every operation.   

He even started bringing a gong with him to board meetings; if anyone came up with an idea or made suggestion he didn't like, he'd whack it with a mallet and that was your signal to shut up and not say anything more.  
  
(After a while, his underlings began to notice that many of The Mister's favorite schemes were ones that he'd previously gonged—except now they were  _his_  ideas.)

With that change, there had also come a shift in his management style. In the beginning, The Mister had _led_  by example…now he  _ruled_ by leverage. "I never trust nobody I can't destroy with one phone call," had quickly become his creed.

And all that had been  _before_  he'd gotten sick Since then, he'd become suspicious practically to the point of a paranoia. Every disagreement with him was an act of disloyalty, every action taken without consulting him was an attempt to undermine his authority. More and more the decisions he made were based on heated emotion rather than cold calculation. It showed not only in his relationship with his soldiers but also with his contacts in law enforcement and the intelligence community—who soon began holding him at arms' length, and refusing to answer his messages. Only a few years previously, he had nearly followed Bullgoar into fugitive status, avoiding a RICO conviction only by the skin of his teeth. It had been the closest The Mister had ever come to a guilty verdict on a major offense…and had served only to further convince the sea-mink of his own invulnerable status.

And that wasn't even mentioning the way he let that punk kid of his James Jr. get away with EVERYTHING. There was a running joke within The Company; when the Mister finally kicked off, Junior would have about a 48 hour head-start, "coz that's how long it'll take to settle who gets the privilege of icing him."

The gag never got a laugh, only a knowing nod.

But as much as the other gang members might have come to despise their boss, they still preferred him to civil war. Denis and Gerry might be on friendly terms at the moment, but everyone knew that when their brother was gone, all that was going to change and in a big way; each of them was convinced that he—and  _only_  he—was the rightful successor to The Mister, and both were prepared to shed blood in pursuit of that quest.

And so, however grudgingly, James McCrodon Senior continued to be tolerated as boss of the Company.

Now he turned sideways, to the brown bear on his right, holding his paw to his face with a cupping motion. The bear stepped up and put an oxygen mask over the sea-mink's fat muzzle. After two long hits, McCrodon waved away the bodyguard with an irritable paw.

Then he looked down the table at his brothers

"You'll have yer answers soon as our 'friends' get here. Meantime…take an even strain."

"Yeah, okay…but where's the rest of OUR guys?" a hulking musk-ox named 'Muggs' Marsten was asking, unsatisfied. He gestured towards a pair of empty chairs. "Where's Kieran…and the Danaconda? I saw Tipperin's car outside just now; how come he ain't here yet?"

"And where the heck is Zeke?" Dicey Burns also queried.

The Mister took another dose of O2 before answering, "Zinneman's watchin' the back and Kieran and Tipperin are busy getting that diamond shipment outta here. They'll join us soon as they're done." (A half-truth only.)

"Yeah, about that shipment," his brother Denis asked mellowing a little, "What kinda score are we lookin' at here?"

"Little less than $200 Grand," the Mister answered, more than happy for the change of subject.

At the opposite end of the table Sammy M'kwaaz a fossa in oversized spectacles let out a low, descending whistle.

"Hrmmm, not bad Mistah McCrodon, that's at least $50 K more than we could have got in Furrida."

"We wouldn't have got NOTHIN' in Furrida for  _these_  stones," Denis McCrodon wryly corrected him, "I think you get my meaning."

Taking no offense, the fossa just nodded.

"Aye…and it's about time, yeah? Seriously, I was beginning to think we'd  _nevah_  move those rocks."

"You sure we can trust these guys?" queried Joey Mercer, a black bear seated two chairs away from Gerry.

The Mister's reply was both cool and matter-of-fact.

"They know us, and they know our reputation. They won't pull no double cross."

The bear nodded but then raised an eyebrow, "And they're _really_  willing to unload…?"

His boss cut him off by rapping the table again. "How many times I gotta say it? Yeah!"

"Okay, maybe we can trust the  _buyers,"_  Muggs the musk ox was speaking up again, "but what about this? The word on the grapevine says the Red Pig has a piece of that joint."

The Mister blinked as if he hadn't quite heard him right and then he tilted his head back and laughed; a caustic guffaw that ended in choking cough and a hasty application of the oxygen mask. When his bodyguard took it away again, he waved an airy paw, "I don't worry myself what that loudmouth jerk thinks…and anyway, it's his own fault. If he hadn't got so greedy, those guys wouldn't NEED to do business with us."

The Musk Ox chuckled and raised his hooves in a gesture of, 'no further questions'…but he was clearly not happy with this bit of news.

A moment of silence followed while the Mister treated himself to a few more whiffs of oxygen, looking thoughtfully over his lieutenants as he inhaled the life-saving gas. Now…while they're in a good mood? (They weren't, but he couldn't see it.) Yes, he finally decided, now would be a good time.

He returned the mask to the bear, saying, "I don't wanna drop _all_  the reasons for this meet just yet…not until everyone's here, but lemme give yas a taste at least."

Every ear at the table rose upwards; every eye became instantly alert.

"For the longest time, what has been our dream?" the Mister asked, and then answered his own question, "To take The Company legit, to become respectable. And now, thanks to an incredible piece of luck, we finally got the chance to make that wish upon a star come true."

He allowed himself a dramatic pause before continuing.

"Everybody here has heard me say it, 'Never trust a guy you can't destroy with a single phone call.' And now, coz of a chance discovery by my nephew Kieran, we've got THAT kinda leverage on none other than one of the biggest private security outfits on the planet."

Several guys gasped, a couple applauded, and Dicey the tiger even roared.

The Mister allowed the din to subside and then indulged in a little self-puffery.

"Now, I coulda handled this in one of two ways. In return for keeping what we got to ourselves, I could have demanded a payoff, like usual, or I could have 'asked' for a favor…but then I got a better idea."

He paused for effect and then dropped it.

"A partnership…a partnership between the Company and the corporation I just mentioned. They need weapons; we got 'em. And I plan for us to become their numero uno supplier." He tapped the table with a finger again. "And that's the main reason for this sit-down, to hash out that deal."

Settling back in his wheelchair, the Mister smiled around the table at his soldiers—as if in blissful expectation of the accolades that must surely follow such a brilliant coup.

They were not forthcoming. While the reaction from the others was almost universally positive, it was also decidedly muted.

The reason why was quickly expressed by The Mister's younger brother Gerry.

"You sure about this?" he asked, drumming on the table with uneasy fingers, "I mean, you just said yourself they're the biggest private security outfit…"

"ONE of the biggest," The Mister interrupted him, causing the younger sea mink to come halfway out of his seat.

"Biggest…one of the biggest, it don't matter! What matters is this: This wouldn't be the  _same_ outfit that stonewalled you on Crazy Wez would it?"

"Darn right they are," McCrodon growled, doubling down, "Icing on the cake!"

" _The Company_  on ice you mean!" Now  _Denis_  McCrodon was on his feet—and also in high dudgeon. "You think you're gonna put the screws to THOSE guys? That ain't just playing with fire, its messin' with  _nukes."_ He pointed towards The Mister with an iron finger, "How much you worth, huh  _Mister_  McCrodon? Heck, how much is the whole darn COMPANY worth? A hundred, two hundred million, tops? And you think you can stick it to an outfit worth that much in  _billions_ at least—even  _after_ how they brushed us off like fleas? _"_  He shook his head at the table, and then fired an even more withering look at his brother, "Cripes, you got  _any_ idea how much leverage you're dealing with here?"

"Not as much as I got on THEM," The Mister snarled, refusing to back down, "Enough to destroy this suit and his company a hundred times over." His lip curled upwards in a superior snarl. "That's right, a suit…a soft-pawed little suit who ain't dealin' with no boardroom types  _now._  And don't forget what SPECIES he is." He jabbed a finger downwards, towards the catacombs beneath Finagle's Dance Club. "Even as we talk here, my nephew Kieran is finishing the set-up. With the touch of a button, this  _suit_  and his entire organization is toast."

An awkward silence filled the dance floor as the pair of sea-mink tried to stare each other down—while the rest of the gang threw uneasy glances with one another. Most of them agreed with Denis, but none dared say so.

Meanwhile the tension across the table continued to build—and then it shattered abruptly, as Muggs Marsten's chair shattered beneath his weight.

Furiously waving off any assistance, the Musk Ox picked himself up again, blowing an angry note through his nostrils.

"M-whoa, whose bright idea was  _this…_ Junior again?"

The use of his son's name in  _that_  tone of voice drew an instant, angry glare from The Mister.

Muggs didn't see it, but Gerry McCrodon did and moved quickly to change the subject.

"Saaaay," he said, waving at the empty seat beside The Mister, "Speaking of Junior…where the heck is  _he?"_

His query had the desired effect; The Mister's eyebrows performed a quick set of pull-ups and he looked to his left and right with a puzzled expression. Yeah…where the heck WAS his boy?

But Muggs apparently didn't know a lifeline when he saw it.

"Who cares as long as that punk's not  _here!"_  He said, and then his eyes widened and his hoof was flying up to his mouth. At the same time, all the gang members sitting closest to the musk ox began to hurriedly move away from him. There was only ONE thing you could say to The Mister that was worse than calling him by name…and this fool had just said it.

The sea-mink raised a pair of fingers, beckoning to his bodyguards…

And at that moment the kitchen-door crashed open and Zeke Zinneman came rushing onto the dance floor; frazzled fur and eyes as big as eight-balls.

"Cah…" he wheezed, as he hurried towards the conference table, nearly tripping and falling at least twice, "Cahhh."

And then he was on his knees before the Mister's wheelchair, panting and out of breath, a supplicant seeking absolution.

"Cah…" he rasped, halfway choking and clutching at the chair's left side like drowning mammal grabbing at a chunk of driftwood, "Cahhh…"

The Mister promptly smacked him on the cheek, but not hard; in different circumstances, it could almost have been mistaken for a gesture of affection.

"For crying out loud Zeke, take a deep one and calm the heck down."

The bear nodded a sheepish face and then inhaled deeply.

The Mister gave him another second, and then tapped him on the bridge of his nose. "Awrite, now what the heck's goin' on?"

The bear's answer came in an explosive air-burst.

"COPS!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains Easter Egg reference to Pinocchio.
> 
> There's also none-too-subtle reference to a certain CEO with the initials, 'M.E."


	4. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The traps springs shut and a new face arrives on the scene

**Disclaimer:** Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

* * *

  **The Fire Triangle - A Zootopia Fanfiction**

**Prologue – Escape From Zoo York**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Zeke Zinnemann was like a grenade with the pin pulled...20 seconds ago!

"COPS!" The Alaskan Brown Bear roared; he sounded as if he was trying to be heard over the rush of a speeding freight-train, "CAWWWWWWPS!"

The effect on the others was galvanic; everyone was instantly on their feet, with half the gang making fast draws inside their coats, (except for Denis McCrodon who paused to give his wheelchair-bound brother a look that could snuff out an oil-well explosion.)

The Mister either didn't notice or didn't care—or maybe he was simply too deep in denial to take notice of his brother. Whatever the reason, he was already halfway out of his seat.

"What?! That jerk wouldn't  _dare_ , he knows what I got on him!"

He pulled out his cell phone, punching in numbers with furious fingers.

Meanwhile Gerry McCrodon had Zeke Zinneman by the arm.

"How many, Zeke? How may cops?"

The bear shrugged and shivered and then answered him in a voice like a squeaky wagon wheel.

"E-Every cop on the force, it looks like."

The dance floor fell instantly into shocked silence; what, THAT many officers?

But then, above their heads, the billboard-size big-screen flashed to life and a multi-screen image appeared—Finagles' parking lot, deserted and empty, the only sign of life a scattering of papers, tumbling across the lower end of the screen.

Everyone looked…and saw that the 'cell phone' in the Mister's paw was actually the video remote, and that he was holding it high over his head, as if preparing to cast it down like Zeus hurling a thunderbolt.

"Don't, you'll break it," some started to say, but the sea-mink had already tossed the remote to one of his body guards and seized Zeke by the shirt-front.

"Cops?" he snarled, pulling himself nose to nose with the brown bear and throwing an angry paw upwards at the display screen, "WHAT cops? You see any cops up there, moron?!"

But when the sea-mink happened to glance sideways, hrm? Why were none of others sharing his anger at Zeke? In fact…why did they seem more horrified than ever?

Slowly, haltingly, The Mister turned to look up at the monitor again.

He nearly fell over sideways in his chair; the parking lot wasn't empty NOW, it was wall to wall police officers out there…all of them in tac-gear, and many of them fitted out with large-caliber weapons. Clearly visible behind the officers was a phalanx of armored vehicles.

"Where the heck did they _get_ that stuff?" an incredulous Gerry McCrodon demanded, of no one in particular, "There ain't that many tanks in the whole, stinkin' Zoo York Lion Guard!"

Someone might have answered him but just then, as the gang-members all stared upwards in shocked amazement, the screen filled briefly with a flurry of snow, and when it blew away, the parking lot was once more deserted…and there were those same papers, blowing across the bottom of the screen like a scrolling newsfeed.

A half-second later the snowstorm returned, and when it was gone, the police line was visible once more.

…with one notable change; now the answer to Gerry McCrodons's question was plain for all to see; of the armored fursonell carriers ringing the club perhaps only a third were police vehicles. The rest were all done up not in police blue, but in stark, gray, urban camo. The biggest of them, a six-wheeled brute with a Bighorn sheep standing in the turret also bore a clearly visible logo on the front—not 'ZYPD', but 'ASM'

That was when The Mister finally realized who was  _really_  pulling the strings. (He knew that combination of letters; knew it all too well.)

He grabbed for his cell (the real one this time) and began to dial frantically, staring at the screen with teeth bared and paw trembling waiting for the connection.

After several more seconds he made a sound and began to dial again.

The room jumped as he let out a shriek and dialed another number.

…and another…

…and another…

…and another.

He tried to send a text message—nothing.

He tried to open his email account—no go.

…and then he was gazing dumbly into the display screen.

For a long moment nobody spoke, nobody moved; it was as if every member of The Company had looked straight into the face of Mewdusa

But then from somewhere to the west, the thrumming cadence of a helicopter became audible…faintly at first, but then it began to rapidly increase in volume, swelling upward outward until it echoed the length and breadth of the dance-floor. In mere seconds, the members of the gang were crouching in their seats and covering their heads against the din.

And then an amplified voice was heard, booming over the sound of the chopper blades, haranguing them in a badly-rendered Scots accent.

_"You! Yes…YOU! Stannnnd stilllll, Laddie!"_

The declaration ended in a high, maniacal laugh…and then the voice lost its accent and turned deadly serious.

_"No one here gets out alive, McCrodon…and neither does his so-called LEVERAGE!"_

The Mister recognized the speaker at once; though he had never met him face to face, he knew who it was all right.

And he also knew a sudden, sharp ache that seemed to take his breath away. He clutched at his chest as the chopper peeled away and the rotor noise faded to a dull drumbeat. Almost at once, a second amplified voice was heard, this one coming from ground level—not as loud as the one from the helicopter, but not muffled by any background noise either.

"Attention, inside the building! This is the Zoo York City Police Department! We have you surrounded. Throw down your weapons and come out with your paws and hooves raised. You have fifteen minutes to comply. Attention, inside the building…"

The first to recover was Muggs. "Mister McCrodon. What do we…?

The head of the table was empty. Not only was The Mister nowhere to be seen, but his bodyguards had also….no wait, the bears had stayed put, but all that was visible of them was the crest of their backs above the tabletop.

The other gang members exchange puzzled looks, and then Denis McCrodon dropped down on one knee and peered underneat the conference table.

His brother was curled up on his side in a fetal position, with one of the bears holding the oxygen mask over his muzzle. His eyes were like two glass beads, and when the bear removed the mask for a second, it revealed a slack mouth and lips the color of faded denim.

Denis slapped himself with a face-pawlm. He had wanted to ice Mr. Stupid  _himself._

Meanwhile, the loudspeaker continued its lethal warning:  _"Throw down your weapons and come out with your paws and hooves raised…"_

* * *

 Down below, in the boiler room, Danny, Dylan, and Kieran could hear it too…faint, but still discernable

_"You have fourteen minutes and thirty seconds to comply…"_

Even though his uncle had not been able to get through to him, Kieran McCrodon had known what to do the instant the helicopter had begun its tirade. He was already logged onto Brenda, headset in place and fingers at the ready.

…while he stared, dazed and confused, at the display screen.

"What do you mean, 'they're gone! _'"_  Danny Tipperin was gaping over the sea-mink's shoulder, looking even more bewildered than his partner.

"Oi mean they're  _gone,_  Danny." Kieran answered, typing feverishly and speaking in a half-choked voice. "Not just deleted, they're shredded…every file in the folder." He pounded his fists on the console, causing the keyboard to jump a good two inches, "Someone ran 'em though Earthmink Fine-Shred. Even _I_  can't get 'em back."

"But you backed 'em up in The Cloud, right?" Dylan's young voice came from behind; he may not have known what was in those files, but you  _better_  believe he knew how The Druid operated.

"Right, I did that." The sea-mink acknowledged, forcing his breathing to slow down, "Trouble is I don't know if even I can retrieve 'em quick enough. They're ransomware-level encoded, only way t' keep anyone else from…AGGGGH! NO!"

He raised another fist, ready to punch out the monitor. Danny grabbed for his elbow, but Kieran was already lowering his arm, his voice both strained and hollow

"We've no internet boyo, the DSLs are down; somehow they got to every single line, even the backup."

Danny gasped and his dark eyes went wide with horror; even  _he_  hadn't expected THIS big a pre-emptive coup.

In a trembling voice he asked, "Okay, then what about…?"

But the sea mink was already shaking his head.

"No Wi-Fi either, I checked," he said, then added in a voice of quiet despair, "There's not even the dial-up, not that it'd help much anyways."

From somewhere up above they heard:  _"Attention, inside the building! This is…"_

Danny sagged in defeat…but then he straightened up and snapped his fingers.

"Wai-ai-ai-aiiiiit a second, hang on Druid. Didn't you tell me something once—about how ya can use a cell-phone to make a fursonal hot-spot?"

The sea-mink reeled backwards, staring wide-eyed.

"Sweet mother Mac _Croon,_ Daniel. D'yer know how much the phone companies CHARGE fer that…?"

"Kie- _RAN!"_

"All right, all riiiiight!"

He waved his paws at the ceiling and then grabbed for his cell-phone.

_"…have you surrounded. Throw down your…"_

…and immediately lowered it, emitting a pathetic twisted groan.

"Now what?" Danny demanded; the first notes of panic were starting to creep into his voice.

Kieran showed him the cell-phone screen. In the upper left corner, the words, ' **No Service'**  were clearly visible.

"They've got us, boyo." He told the swift-fox quietly, "We're p*wned."

_"You now have eleven minutes and thirty seconds..."_

The warning droned on as a wave of resignation washed over the boiler-room, broken finally by the small voice of Dylan Yeats.

"Danny?"

The swift fox tried to wave him off. "Not now, kid."

_"…Zoo York City Police Department!"_

But the younger fox would not be deterred, not now.

"Danny, I don't wanna go back to Granite Point." He said. There was no fear in his voice, no anxiety, only an air of simple, quiet determination.

The swift-fox turned on him, ears back and fur spiking. He couldn't remember the last time he'd lost his temper with Dylan Yeats—but then, how often did you find yourself in  _this_  situation?

"Hey, what did I  _just_  say?"

In other circumstances the silver fox would have silenced himself at once. Not here, not now; he grabbed hold of Danny's coat sleeve, his voice firm and steady, (although Kieran could see that his tail was anything but.)

"I know it's a lot to ask…but please, don't let me go back there." He looked away, towards a corner somewhere. "I-I can't go back to The Point, not again." His eyes found Danny's again…plaintive, beseeching, even though his voice was as steady as True North. "Please Danny."

Danny jerked away from Dylan as if the young fox's his paw had suddenly become a glowing coal, his eyes and mouth both wide with shock. Beside him, Kieran was looking even more horrified. Did the kid  _really_ just ask his partner to…?

_"…Throw down your weapons and come out with…"_

But then Danny's mouth hardened into a thin, straight line, and his eyes became a mixture of flint and steel.

"You're  _not_  going back there, kid." He promised, "Because you're gonna be gone when the cops get here."

He laid a paw on the younger fox's shoulder, and looked at Kieran. "Need your help over here, Druid. Bring that." He pointed to the laptop case on the task table.

"Right!" the sea-mink answered with the same stony resolve. (He had already guessed what his partner has in mind.) He snatched up the laptop and tucked it back under his arm..

_"You now have ten minutes to comply. Attention…!"_

A moment later, Danny and Kieran were grunting and heaving, as they pushed a bank of steel filing cabinets away from the wall of a corridor. It seemed like a wasted exercise; behind the row of cabinets there appeared to be nothing more than worn masonry.

Or…was there? Danny felt around the edges of a brick, found something and pulled.

With a grinding squeal, a hatchway popped open in the wall, a set-up not unlike the door to Dylan's room but smaller; the approximate diameter of a small mammal oil-drum. Just beyond, the opening a passageway was faintly visible, sloping upwards and away. Danny gave it a quick inspection with a mini-flashlight and then nodded, and turned to Dylan.

"There, kid…there's your way out. It's not in any of the plans, so the cops won't know it's there." He said this while looking at Kieran who confirmed it with a quick, tight nod. And then he got down on one knee again and put a paw on the younger fox's shoulder. "That's not to say you're home free, kid. That tunnel comes right out in the middle of the parking lot. You might get grabbed by the cops the second you're outta there…but it still beats sittin' here, just waiting for it." His face became momentarily hard again, "And don't even  _think_  about asking me what you were gonna ask a minute ago. I swear, I'll turn your little, bushy-tailed butt over to the cops MYSELF!"

The young fox swallowed and nodded…but then he seemed to realize something; he looked at the escape hatch, then back at Danny, and then at Kieran.

"You're not…?"

"It's also too late for us, Dylan." Danny answered with a stoic sigh, "Even if me and The Druid  _could_ make it through that hole, we'd only be putting things off for a while, if you follow what I'm bringing out." He gave the silver fox's shoulder a small squeeze.

"But it's not too late for  _you."_  He said and passed over the backpack. "Here, take it…take it and go make the trade. It's all yours now, kid."

He looked over at Kieran who nodded and picked up the thread,

"After yer've got the cash Dylan, dial that first number on your cell that I told you 'bout and follow the instructions. It'll get ye's to safety and tell yer how to retrieve the codes and passwords you'll need from the Cloud."

Dylan started to say something, but the sea-mink immediately raised a paw.

"Wait a minute, boy…Oi'm not done yet."

_"…ten minutes to comply. Attention, inside the…"_

He passed the laptop case to the young fox and then fiddled in his pocket for a second, producing the thumb-drive he showed to Danny earlier.

""Yer'll want this as well, I think." He said, pressing it into Dylan's paw with an air of great reverence, the Lady of the Lake entrusting Arthur with Excalibur.

The gravity of Kieran's act was apparently lost on Dylan. The young fox studied the flash-drive minutely for a second, and then looked up with a puzzled expression on his face.

"Wh-What's this for?" he asked.

Kieran sniggered and pointed with a crooked finger, offended not at all by Dylan's blankness.

"It's yer new identity, boyo. Made it up special. When yer get to where there's Wi-Fi, boot up the laptop and plug in that drive. All ye've got to do then is double click the icon and enter yer password. The app wizard will take ye's through the set-up."

Conor blinked up at the sea-mink for a second.

"New identity?" he asked, putting the thumb-drive away, VERY carefully. "What's my new name?"

The Druid winked at him. "Any name you want, boyo; weren't you once told you could pick yer own name when you got older?"

_"We have you surrounded. Throw down your…"_

"What he said, kid." Danny nodded. He pointed to the escape hatch and then upwards, towards the parking lot. "It's your life now, so go get that money and go live it,"

Dylan wasn't going anywhere, not yet. Instead he threw his arms around the swift fox's neck, hugging him tight.

Or that is, he _tried_  to; Danny immediately pushed him off.

"Hey, heyyyyy, none of that kid," He growled, becoming once more stern as a vice principal, "You get your tail up that chute and right  _now,_  you hear me? MOVE!"

With Danny and Kieran's help, Conor slipped the laptop into his duffle-bag, then pushed it and the backpack into the chute and climbed in after them. As soon as he was inside, Danny closed the hidden door behind him and then he and Kieran pushed the file cabinets back in front of it.

_"…your weapons and come out with your paws and hooves…"_

When they were done, Danny's voice was trembling and it felt like there was a burning billiard ball caught in his throat.

"Ya know, I'm kinda glad it's over, Druid." He sniffed, "I was gettin' too soft for this stuff anyway."

"Aye, know what yer mean, Danny-boy." Kieran answered, also sniffing and wiping a paw across his eyes.

_"…eight minutes and thirty second to comply."_

"Yeah, yeah…we're comin' _,_  coppers." Danny Tipperin growled impatiently, reaching into his coat pocket while Kieran did the same.

* * *

  ** _Outside Finagles, fifteen minutes earlier…_**

"Here's your lattes, Captain….Commissioner."

Captain Gilberto Anta, ZYPD took the cup and sniffed tentatively at the contents; good, they'd remembered the nutmeg this time.

He curled his long snout upwards and took an exploratory sip. Mmmph, darn…it had already begun to cool, why was there never microwave around when you needed one?

His displeasure over the coffee notwithstanding, Gil Anta was a happy tapir; today would see the end of The Company once and for all…and proof positive that the arrangement between the Zoo York City Police Department and Aker Security Management Corporation had been nothing short of a stroke of genius.

And HE would get a feather in his cap, a big, honking  _ostrich_  feather!

Of course, the lion's share of the credit belonged to the Aurochs bull standing beside him; more than any other mammal it had been Police Commissioner Ted Waghorn who had pushed the proposition through the city council and cajoled the mayor's office into signing off on it.

It had begun, as so many of these things do with a budget shortfall and a tax revolt. And in the wake of that perfect storm the ZYPD had found itself unable to meet its expenses. So acute was the crises that the Zoo York City council had been forced to convene in emergency session to attempt to resolve the matter.

What resulted instead was deadlock.

"Cut police services." One side declared.

"We can't do that." Said the other, "They've already slashed everything down to the bone."

"Well we can't raise taxes either." The first side rejoined, "They (the voters) will run us out of town on a rail."

 _No one_  wanted to argue with that, and so the session had dragged on and on and on…

But then lo, Police Commissioner Theodore Waghorn had taken the floor and offered a proposition.

"Okay, you think we can't trim our budget any more than we have already?" he'd said, flexing his massive shoulders and staring directly across the conference table. "Oh yes we can, and _I_  can tell you exactly how and where make the cut."

None of the mammals present had been particularly interested in hearing his idea; as far as they were concerned the Aurochs was a blowhard who'd already managed to rub more than half of them the wrong way. However after six hours of stalemate, they were willing to listen to practically anything and so assistant Mayor Freed had reluctantly told him to get on with it.

Waghorn's proposal had centered on the ZYPD SWAT teams and other emergency service units. On a day to day basis, most of them were superfluous, spending half their time in training exercises because there wasn't any need for them on the street.

"Yeah, but if this city ever faces a real crises, we're going to need every single one of them." Mel Jakoby, a civet from The Broncs had pointed out.

"Exactly!" Waghorn had bugled and laid out his proposal.

Two years previously, the State of Zoo York had opted to follow the lead of Zoo Jersey and privatize their youth corrections. The firm tasked with the job, Aker Correctional Corp, had performed brilliantly in that capacity, (at least according to the politicians who had signed off on the deal.)

"Aker Correctional is a division of Aker Security Corporation," the Aurochs pointed out, "One of the three largest private security corporations in the business; their officers are both highly trained and highly motivated— _and_  they've got fursonell to spare. What I propose is that we go ahead and cut back on SWAT and other spec police operations—as council-mammal Berk suggested—and contract privately with Aker Security to provide us with emergency back-up fursonell on an on-call basis. That way we're only paying for extra paws on the ground when we  _need_  them."

Nobody applauded; the reaction for the others was lukewarm at best and arctic frigid at the worst. Aldermammal Jake Makai, a leopard and an ex-cop from Barklyn was foursquare against the proposal.

"No way!" he'd flatly told the group, "Those Aker Security mammals are trained in military operations, not law enforcement. Haven't we gone down _that_  road far enough already?"

In the end however, Waghorn's proposal had passed by exactly two votes. Nobody'd liked it but nobody had been able to come up with anything better—and they needed to leave that meeting with  _something_  to show the public.

Even so, it was only the first hurdle; Waghorn still had to get his proposal past the Mayor's office and—even more difficult—the Police Union.

That was where Gilberto Anta had come in. Nobody would ever mistake him for a street cop; the last time he'd worn body armor had been at the police academy and the most lethal weapon he carried these days was a decades-old can of jaguar repellant. But what the tapir lacked in street-cred he more than made up for in political savvy. In the end, he'd gotten the Union to sign off on the deal, however reluctantly and made himself a dozen new enemies in the process—including one Zoo York City Police Detective in particular who'd been a thorn in his side ever since.

Looking over the rows of troopers waiting to go in, Anta allowed himself a smile of self-satisfaction; very shortly that thorn was going to be eating his words with croutons. Without the intel Aker had provided, this operation could never have come off. (It was only right their guys should be allowed to take the point.)

Of course the paw-wringers in the media wouldn't _like_  it when they learned the ZYPD was sending in private contractors as the lead element on a police raid, but by the time they found that out, it would be all over but the shouting and The Company would be out of business...

His ear went up as he became aware that Waghorn was speaking to him.

"I like the way you have everything arrayed." The bull said pointing with his cup-hoof to the lines of vehicles and figures in tac-gear, "You can hardly tell that the Aker boys are set up to take point; only about half the front ranks are their animals."

"Yep," the tapir answered, "When the balloon goes up our officers are under orders to hold back and give them a two-minute head start." He did not bother to mention that the order of had been given at Aker's insistence, not his own.

"Good," the Aurochs nodded, and then suddenly he was pointing again, but this time with an angry finger. "You there, get those animals back behind the line!" He was speaking to an Elk in tac-gear and aiming his finger at a trio of raccoons who had just vaulted one of the concrete barricades. The elk nearly gave him an insolent look but then checked it when he saw who was hailing him. Instead he fired off a crisp salute and hurried to obey.

"Zoo Yorkers." Waghorn shook his head while nearly spitting out the words, "Wherever there's action, they just _have_  to get in close and never mind the risk to themselves."

"And that's only the citizens," Anta agreed, raising his coffee-cup as if proposing a toast, "The press is something like ten times worse." And he thought,  _"but at least I don't have to worry about keeping…"_

It was as if some dark trickster-god had overheard the tapir's musings and decided to have a jest at his expense. From over on his right, he heard Waghorn blow an irate note though his nostrils. "What the…! What the hoot is HE doing here?"

The tapir looked…and then his coffee cup was tumbling to the deck. Twenty yards away, a dark-furred figure in an overcoat was working his way through the crowd in their direction.

"Pennanti!" Anta muttered, coming as close to a growl as was possible for his species.

Waghorn snorted, turning angry eyes on his subordinate. "I though you sent him to…"

"I did!" the tapir rejoined. (With anyone of lesser rank he would have added,  _'pendejo!'_ )

He moved to the edge of the platform but the newcomer was already there, offering a cheery salutation with his own cup of coffee, which Anta knew would be a full-bodied espresso, black no cream no sugar.

"Morning Captain, morning Commissioner; nice day for a raid."

It was the animal's tone rather than his words that nearly set Anta off.

"You better have good explanation for bailing on your assignment Pennanti" he said, jabbing finger in the newcomers face, "or else I swear I'm going to _flush_  your badge."

Detective Lieutenant Martin Pennanti, ZYPD looked profoundly injured.

"Shirk my duties, sir? Surely you of all mammals know me better than that." His face was a portrait, etched in innocence.

He himself was a fisher by species, the second or third largest member of the weasel family, depending on whom you asked—and certain one of the toughest; in the bygone days before they evolved, fishers were one of the few species to regularly prey on porcupines. He was dressed as always in a dark suit and a buff overcoat, the latter a present from his mother.

Like all fishers he had a short, sharp muzzle, small rounded ears and fur the color of brown sugar; his paws looked as if they were a size too big for the rest of his body.

Anta stared at him with one eye closed.

"Are you trying to tell me you made that prisoner transfer to the Zootopia PD…ALREADY?"

The fisher looked over his superior's shoulder at the Commissioner before answering, reaching into his coat pocket and removing a stapled document, "Dropped him off at their Precinct One yesterday, Captain. I was just coming here to give you my report, as per your orders to see you immediately upon completion of my assignment." He passed the paperwork over to the tapir, who scanned it with the expression of suspicious husband perusing a poison pen letter. When he looked up again, he seemed to have more urgent matters to discuss.

"You're not needed here, Pennanti." He told the fisher flatly.

"I can see that, Captain." The mustelid answered in a weary, but neutral tone, "and I'm not gonna raise a stink, not this late in the game."

"Glad to hear it, Pennanti," Anta nodded, not entirely convinced.

The sea-mink nodded back and raised his coffee cup, "So if you'll excuse me, it's been a long couple of days and I'll be on my way,  _Salud!"_ He flipped the lid from the coffee container, tilted his head back and slammed the contents in a single gulp.

Anta winced, and Waghorn grimaced; no matter how many times they saw him do that, it never failed to put their teeth on edge. By the time their jaws had realigned, the fisher was already walking away.

He managed about five steps before the Commissioner's severe, booming voice caught up with him.

"Lieutenant!"

Pennanti stopped and looked over a shoulder. Waghorn was aiming a warning finger in his direction.

"You say one word to a reporter—any reporter, about  _any_ thing—and you'll be walking a riverfront beat in Preds Point." The Aurochs bull's voice was soft, almost consoling, but his features were those of an angry deity.

The fisher seemed to stop in place like a living statue, and then he nodded numbly and turned away with his head sagging, slinking away with slow shambling steps, like an extra on The Migrating Dead.

Captain Anta watched him go with an almost sunny smile;  _now_  he was satisfied.

The tapir might not have been so sanguine had he seen the expression on Pennanti's face—or watched him break into a sprint the moment he was out of sight.

* * *

 Martin Pennanti might have been a bête noire as far as some of the ZYPD Brass was concerned, but to almost every cop on the street he was both a folk hero and a role model. His list of commendations and citations for bravery, if held at the level of an elephant's eye, would have unfurled all the way to the floor. Everyone in the Detective Bureau agreed that he should at least have been promoted to captain by now, maybe even made Chief of Detectives; more than a few of the ZYPD rank and file thought that HE should have been given Waghorn's job, (though none of them ever said so publicly.)

Unfortunately, the fisher was also…

A. a member of the _weasel_  family and…

B. known in the upper echelons of Department for 'not being a team player', a polite, bureaucratic euphemism for someone who refused to 'go along to get along'.

Pennanti found the van parked two blocks away at an empty construction site, a boxy panel truck in primer gray, of the type used by parcel delivery services. It was built for larger-mammals and looked as big as a tractor trailer to a smaller species like him. He rapped twice on the back door, calling out simply, "Open up, it's me."

The door rose upwards immediately, revealing a rhino the side of a blockhouse in a linen suit, who took one look at the fisher, blew a note and reached grumbling into his pocket, extracting a bill which he passed to the Cuban Kinkajou in the Guayabera shirt behind him.

"Toldjoo he'd make it." Said Detective First Grade Alejandro 'Pepe' Guerrero to Detective First Grade Ronald 'Spike' Bush.

"Oh ye of little faith." The fisher grinned and hopped up into the van, to be greeted by a chorus of high fives, backslaps, fist bumps and a bagel pressed into his paw.

"So are you gonna keep us all in suspense schmuck, or you gonna tell us how you pulled it off?" queried Detective First Grade Ruth Aronberg, a European Bison in a baseball jacket.

"I hitched a ride on a military flight," Penannti answered taking a bite of his bagel, and immediately throwing it away, "Pteh, day old!"

'Hey what do want for nothing?" queried the red panda in the pants suit, seated at the workbench to his left, "Rubber biscuit?" As always Detective Sergeant Claudia Nizhang's expression was unreadable whenever she chose.

They were collectively known as the Full House, three kings and two queens—the toughest squad of detectives in the Five Burrows; together they had taken down some of Zoo York's most vicious gangs, including the dreaded OX 13.

"So, silly question," Spike the rhino was asking. "You get permission for us to go in?"

"No," Pennanti admitted looking coy, "But Commissioner Wagfinger didn't specifically order me NOT to go in either."

"You know our tails will be in a sling anyway." Ruth reminded him, playing the Greek chorus, "Especially if this raid goes off as planned."

"And with the kind of firepower they got out there, I don't see how it  _can't_  come off." Spike Bush poked a thumb in Finagles' direction, even more pessimistic than Ruth.

"I know," the fisher nodded seriously looking from one of his detectives to the other, "I won't lie to you guys; if we do this, it'll probably be the last game the Full House ever plays. If anyone wants to opt out, there'll be no hard feelings." He looked towards the door and then at his watch, and then up again, "But I need your answers quick mammals; the clock is ticking."

None of them hesitated in their response and it was Claudia Nizhang who set the tone. "Oh, what the heck, Gil Anta will probably be made Chief of Detectives for this…and who wants to work for  _that_  tail-kissing jerk?"

"All right fine," It was Spike Bush, "But how are we supposed to get into Finagles when we probably won't even make it to the _perimeter_  before they turn our tails back?"

By way of response, Pennanti looked at his second, "Show me the magic, Claudia."

The red panda flipped open the pair of laptops and a grid of police cam images appeared. She clicked on one, enlarging the frame; it showed an overhead view of Finagles' employee parking, on the opposite side of the building from where the patrons parked their vehicles.

"There," she said pointing to the screen, "See that little, crescent-shaped shadow? What's in that location? Anyone remember?"

Pennanti let out a rush of air, so did Pepe Guerrero. "The Mister Private steam-room," they breathed in chorus.

"That's right." Claudia nodded, "just below ground-level. She clicked and zoomed in on another part of the frame, showing a narrow grey rectangle, jutting from the wall of the club.

"And that is…?" Pennanti asked her.

"That," the red panda responded allowing herself a small, dramatic pause, "is a wheelchair ramp."

"Wha…?" said Ruth Aronberg looking confused, "Why would you put a wheelchair ramp where there isn't any door…? Oh, riiiiight. _"_  She groaned, giving herself a face-hoof."

Claudia nodded and then pointed at the screen

"The bad news is that the space between the steam-bath and that ramp is in a clear line of sight from three different angles. The good news is that the space between there and the boatyard fence is hardly being watched at all. If we can make into that steam-bath we'll have to hold until the balloon goes up, but then we'll have a good thirty yards on everyone else." She pointed to the wheelchair ramp, "and I bet you those Aker jerks don't have a clue about that hidden door."

"Yeah, about that," Ruth Aronberg queried with her ears flapping, "Where's that door lead to anyway?"

It was Martin Pennanti who answered the bison.

"Either down to the basement, or there's a way down there close by," he said, "It's on the opposite side of the club from The Mister's Office—so either he takes the underpass to get there or he rolls across the dance floor—and the second one's not an option, at least not during business hours." He paused, frowning and stroking his muzzle. "We'd still need a distraction to make it to the steam bath without being spotted."

"You wanna distraction, Boss?" Pepe Guerrero was grinning from cheek-tuft to cheek-tuft.. "How's this. D'joo know that homeless camp under the boa'yard pier? Well, nobody cleared it out yet."

"What?" Martin Pennanti demanded looking shocked… _shocked_  I tell you, "Captain Anta allowed some civilians to remain that close to the line of fire? Tsk, tsk."

"Oy, oy, oy! Waghorn will have a fit when he hears," Ruth Aronsen chimed in, trying not to grin.

"Sorry, but we have no choice I'm afraid," The fisher told her raising finger and looking funeral-director solemn. "As fine, upstanding police officers, it is our sacred duty to inform our superiors of this situation." He looked of at Claudia, "Discreetly, of course."

"Of course," the red-panda echoed, slipping on a headset.

"There gonna be enough space in that steam room for all of us?" Spike Bush the Doubting Thomas inquired while the red-panda went to work, "Some of us are little bigger than a sea-mink Lieutenant…or a fisher."

"Don't worry, there'll be plenny a' room," Pepe said, offering the rhino's knee a hearty fist-bump. "The Mister never goes anywhere without at leas' two of his bodyguards these days, an' joo know how big they are."

The rhino started to reply but then Pennanti clapped his paws for attention.

"All right, I want flash-bangs, smoke, and stun grenades; Tasers and trank darts, night-vision goggles and laser sights. Skip the body armor."

"Wha…?" said Pepe, holding up a tac-vest as if it were a trophy fish Pennanti had just suggested he throw back, "Against  _The Company_  you don' want no body armor? Ai, Joo know what kinda firepower they got inside a' Finagles, boss?"

"Yes, and that's WHY we don't want body armor, booby." It was Ruth, "They'll be loaded up with rounds that can get through whatever protection we put on anyway, so we might as well save ourselves the extra weight." She looked for conformation to Pennanti, who nodded tersely.

"Okay," the kinkajou conceded, then turned towards the fisher again, "But you still haven' tol' us what you hope to accomplish in there,  _Jefe._  Why we doing this, huh?"

"Yeah, why?" said Spike, for once in complete accord with Pepe.

By way of response, Pennanti walked over and typed a quick set of instruction on one of the laptops. The view changed instantly to an overhead shot of the police lines drawn up in front to the club.

"Because I recognize that order of deployment;" he said, "those goombas aren't going in to take prisoners, this is a search and destroy mission." He turned back to his detectives, "But maybe…just maybe if we can get in there first, we can get one or two of those Company guys out alive. I…Ruth, what the HECK?"

The bison had just face-hoofed herself and was starting to laugh.

"Oy…M…Goodness; if anyone had ever told me that one day I'd have to save  _The Company_  from the COPS…"

They all started to laugh, but just then, a helicopter passed overhead, winging low and causing them all to duck.

"Mother of…" Martin Pennanti hissed as he stood back up again. "I knew they were playing for keeps out there, but that was no news or police chopper, it's a large-mammal  _gunship!"_

A second later they heard the crackling sound of a PA, coming from the aircraft.

"That's it, the countdown's started," Pennanti growled, stoned-faced and grim, "Everyone, get your gear on, we're moving out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note:
> 
> Not to be confused with any domestic breed, the aurochs was a species of large wild cattle that once inhabited Europe, Asia, and North Africa. Currently extinct in our world, the species survived in Europe until the last recorded aurochs died in the Jaktorów Forest, Poland, in 1627.
> 
> Although nearly forgotten now, the aurochs figured prominently in the world of antiquity. The Minotaur of Greek mythology was sired by an aurochs, and the Golden Calf of the Book of Exodus was almost certainly a representation of one.


	5. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of the frying pan...and into another frying pan, and another and another. Dylan Yeats makes a bid for freedom. Will he get away from Finagles before it's too late?

**Disclaimer:** Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws

* * *

  **The Fire Triangle - A Zootopia Fanfiction**

**Prologue – Escape From Zoo York**

* * *

  **Chapter 5**

Pushing the duffel and backpack ahead of him, Dylan Yeats wormed his way up the chute, with Danny Tipperin's penlight clamped firmly between his fingers.

At first the going was relatively easy; the tunnel rose in a gentle arc and he was able to push the bag and pack out ahead of him, and then pull himself up behind.

Soon however, the shaft became steeper and steeper, and he was forced to brace the items on top of his head while inching his way upwards, using his fingers and toes. The sharper angle also obliged him to transfer the mini-light from his paw to his mouth. With every move he made the beam would yaw to the left or the right like the searchlight of a destroyer. Dylan would have just as soon shut the darn thing off, but even foxes can't see in  _total_ darkness.

Still, although he didn't realize it, he was lucky to BE a fox, a mammal that likes to den beneath the ground. While his species wasn't as earth-friendly as say, a rabbit or a ferret, had he been a creature of the wide-open spaces like an antelope or a cheetah he would have _already_  surrendered to the fear of being confined in such close quarters.

Even so, it seemed to the young silver fox as if he were two miles underground rather than a single story below street level…and claustrophobia breeds paranoia. When he got to the tunnel exit he knew—he just  _knew_ —that the instant he opened the hatch, (or lid, or whatever was up there,) strong paws were going seize upon him. And then he'd find himself in cuffs, being frog-marched towards a police cruiser while the crowd jeered in the background, and… _"SHUT that stuff!"_

He bit his lip and pressed on.

As he continued to wriggle his way upwards, Dylan Yeats had three factors working in his favor; two that he knew about and a third that he did not.

The first one was that he couldn't hear that blankety-blank police PA from nside here.  _("…we have you surrounded…")_ The young fox didn't understand it, but he'd take it; that thing was like a cross between the Voice of Doom and a Chinese Water Torture.

Second factor, the chute was old and badly corroded in places—which made it easy for the young fox to find pawholds, toeholds, and spots where he could brace himself against the wall to rest.

The third factor, (the one of which he was unawares) was that he happened to be burrowed beneath a  _city_  street. In the countryside or even the suburbs, the walls of the chute would have long ago been pierced by a thousand trailing roots.

All very good, except something  _was_  blocking the shaft up ahead; almost directly above the young fox, the beam of the mini light was no longer melting into darkness, but forming a translucent circle against a solid background. For half of several seconds, Dylan held in place, with no idea what to do. How the heck was he supposed to get past…?

Then it hit him.  _"Agggggh, grrrrr, that's the_ exit hatch _, DUMB fox!"_

After mentally beating himself to a pulp, Dylan allowed himself to relax—and felt his right foot losing purchase against the wall. He instinctively tried to dig in with his claws;  _big_  mistake, the metal here was slick, and he fell headlong into a backwards slide.

Skidding down the passageway, Dylan found himself caught in the grip of a full-court panic, thrashing wildly, desperately, grabbing for something,  _anything_  to arrest his fall.

Arrest…

By now the cops must be in the basement…and when he hit lower the hatchway they'd hear him. Then they'd pull the cabinet away from the wall, yank open the hatchway, and iron paws would seize him by…

Dylan stuttered to a halt as he hit a patch of the corrosion. For a long moment, he hung there, fighting to get his breathing—and his terror—under control.

The thing that finally brought him down earth was the realization that he had a crying need to gag. In the midst of his free-fall, he had somehow managed to get the penlight pushed halfway down his throat. He worked it free with his tongue and lips and took inventory. Amazingly, the backpack and duffle were still there, albeit just barely in his grip.

Taking hold of them a bit more firmly, Dylan slowly turned his head and shined the light upwards once more; the exit hatch was not only still visible, it looked barely any further away than before his 'death slide'…three, maybe five feet at most.

If he'd had a free paw, he'd have slapped himself.

With a concentrated effort, the young fox untangled and straightened himself, working carefully so as not to lose his gear. And then he was pressing onward and upwards once more. He was three-fox lengths from the exit when he felt the pack hang up on something. Ahhh,eeyarrrrrgh,  _now_  what?

Muttering and growling, Dylan reached over the backpack, and felt his paw wrap around a bar of metal. Wha…? Now what the heck was…? Wait hold it, that's a rung—a sweet, wonderful, beautiful  _rung!_  Oh thank you, thank you, thank…

He felt the duffel bag slip out from beneath him.  _("Not_  again _!")_  He made a desperate grab with his free paw but felt his fingers only brush the surface before the bag slithered away and down the chute. There was nothing he could do but let it go; otherwise he'd lose the backpack as well; he couldn't even look to see where…

Something jerked his tail taut, nearly pulling him down after it. (If it hadn't been for the rung he was holding, it would have.)

After a short, grueling moment the young fox had the backpack propped against another rung and was finally able to look downwards.

The duffel's shoulder strap was tangled in his tail fur; sometimes bad luck is good luck in disguise.

Gingerly, carefully he curled his tail upwards and reached with his paw to retrieve the duffle. It seemed to take a year-and-a-half, and twice he nearly lost the backpack in the process.

_"I'm just glad Danny and Kieran can't see this,"_  the young fox grumbled as he worked,  _"I must look like a one-fox Goofball Troop… Agggh, grrrrrr, no you don't…_ **c'mere!"**

Once he finally retrieved the duffel, things went a lot more smoothly; unhooking the bag's shoulder strap, Dylan looped it through a ladder rung, and then did the same with one of the backpack straps. Now at last, he had both paws free. He climbed the last few feet and braced his left arm against the ladder's topmost rung, then reached up and pressed with his other arm against the exit hatch. Taking two deep breaths he pushed with all his might.

His only reward for the effort was a creak and a groan, plus maybe an inch or two of movement. Even so, the young fox felt encouraged. The cover had  _moved_ ; he had gotten it to move. The exit  _wasn't_ locked or sealed up as he had feared.

Now, moving slowly like a yoga-master, he turned himself over into a head facing downwards positon. And then, closing his eyes against the vertigo, he compressed himself into a tight, furry ball and grabbed the third rung of the ladder with both paws. Another short, deep breath followed and then he braced his back against the wall and pushed up hard on the hatchway with both feet.

Success—the door popped open all the way!

…with a thump and scrape of metal on asphalt that must have been audible from here to Pawkeepsie; there was no way all the cops upstairs wouldn't have heard it too; at any second he'd feel strong paws seize him by the tail and haul him up into the daylight.

A second passed, two seconds passed…nothing.

Then a familiar, if not quite welcome refrain brought the young fox back down to earth.

_"Attention inside the building, this is the Zoo York City Police Department..."_

He pulled himself up and peered cautiously over the rim of the exit-hole.

The lid was lying just beside it, an odd set-up to be sure; there were no hinges to be seen, but neither was it unattached like a mammal-hole cover; instead the hatch-cover was held to the wall of the shaft by a chain, like an old-fashioned, rubber bathtub stopper. Dylan wondered how he could have missed it before, and then decided that it didn't really matter. (He could also see for the first time that the lid had been painted to resemble the surrounding blacktop.)

He pulled himself up a tiny bit further.

Over on his right the young fox could see the front side of Finagles, the 'Closed for Spring Cleaning' banner torn and laying mockingly askew, as if to proclaim, "Correction, make that 'Closed For  _Good!'"_

When Dylan looked to his left he saw finally why the cops hadn't nailed him yet. There, about five feet away, standing between him and the police line was a light-pole pylon the size of a fuel-storage tank. As for anyone having over _heard_  him, what are you kidding me? Between the rumble of all those vehicle engines and the non-stop drone of the Police PA,  _("Throw down your weapons…!")_  the hatchway covering could have been as big as a  _bank-vault_  and the cops wouldn't have heard it crack open.

Dylan turned again, looking straight ahead… and saw a van barreling straight towards him! He grabbed the chain and pulled himself hurriedly back inside the chute, closing the lid behind him. At once something heavy rolled over it, peppering him with rust-flakes as it thumped to a halt.

He gave it a quick moment, and then tried the hatch again.

It refused to budge…but why? It wasn't jammed…it hadn't even closed completely; he could see a needle-thin crescent of light where the covering hadn't quite matched up with the exit.

So why wouldn't the darn thing move?

It took the young silver-fox only all of three seconds work it out, and then he wanted to bite somebody.

_"Agggggh, grrr, I don't believe this! A zillion stinkin' places to park and you had to stop with your tire right HERE?!"_

But then he heard the voices; the first one deep and righteously angry—and then two more, both of them high and indignant.

"Heyyy," Deep voice all but bellowed, "What the heck do you two think you're doing? Get that rig back behind the police line and right now!"

"Hey yourself," high-voice number one responded archly, "We're a news team and we have every RIGHT to be here." He sounded to Dylan like someone who walked with a swagger.

"A FAKE news team." Deep voice sneered, "And even if you weren't, there's no press allowed on this side of the barricades."

"We're embedded reporters, officer!" the second high voice insisted, nasal as a head cold and also female—and also clearly belonging to some kind of rodent species.

"It's 'Sergeant' Miss," Deep voice informed her, curtly, "not 'Officer'; that's number one. Number two, there's no such thing as an embedded police reporter, and number three, you two aren't  _any_ kind of news reporters, so…."

"Yes, we are!" High voice one was refusing to back down. (Dylan would have liked to  _kick_  him down…all the way to the bottom of the escape chute.)

"Look, right there on the side of our van," high-voice number two had become an aggravated squeak, "See that? FreeNet News Service."

"Yeah, I noticed." Sergeant Deep Voice had assumed a tone that made Dylan picture him folding his arms and drumming his fingers on his elbow. "And I also noticed that you spelled 'Service' with an 'F'. So either get that pile of junk out of here right  _now_ …or you can pick it up at the impound yard tomorrow." He paused for effect, and then added a cherry on top, "IF you make bail."

That should have been the end of it, but noooooo!

"What ever happened to freedom of information?" High male voice protested, miserably. ( _Now_ he sounded like a kit, demanding to know WHY he couldn't have any ice cream.)

Not to be outdone in the obduracy department, his partner chittered. "This is a violation of our speech rights!"

That was all as far as the police mammal was concerned.

"If you two aren't out of here in the next ten seconds, the only right you're getting is the rite of SPRING …nine…eight…seven…"

"You'll be hearing from our attorneys!" the guy reporter shouted, and then doors slammed, an engine cranked and more rust flakes were falling.

Muttering under his breath, Dylan gave it half a minute and then pushed the hatchway open again and peered out through the gap.

Yes! The coast was clear, the vehicle was gone, and no sign of that cop!

Moving fast, he slid out the backpack and duffle and pulled himself through the opening after them.

Then he winced, waiting for it. Now it would happen;  _now_ he'd feel those strong paws grabbing…

Wait, what was that sound? Dylan turned and saw another vehicle, coming fast from the opposite direction, a big one. He hurriedly reached for the pack and duffle , but there was no time, he could only save himself. He dropped back into the hole and pulled in the lid again, bracing himself and waiting for the inevitable sound of cracking and splintering as his bags were crushed into worthless debris.

The noise never came…there was only the scrunch of tires the vehicle pulled to a halt.

_"…right on top of me_   **again!**   _Agggggh, grrrrr!"_

He screwed his eyes shut and tried the door.

It opened—only part of the way before hitting something, but more than enough for the young fox to push it aside and pull himself through. And there in front of him, beneath the vehicle's drive shaft, were his backpack and duffel-bag, both without a scratch. (Hallelujah!)

Wriggling out of the chute opening, the young fox pushed the lid back into place (making sure it was flush this time,) and slid cautiously out from under the vehicle.

It was a police ambulance…no surprise there. Of course the cops would be expecting casualties. Why wouldn't they, with all the firepower stashed inside that club? (And he should know.)

_"…give yourselves up. You now have seven minutes to…_

SEVEN…minutes? Dylan blinked and looked as his watch, and then his eyes were wide and he was shaking it as though it might have stopped, (never mind that it was digital model.) There was _that_ much time left? It felt like he'd been inside that shaft since before Blu Ray was invented. But then something scratched at the back of his mind. Sayyyy, when he'd looked at his watch hadn't he also seen…?

He looked at it again and oh crud; his paw appeared to have been sprinkled with cinnamon; no wait, it was rust. Never mind, he couldn't be seen looking like this. Crouching low and out of sight of the ambulance mirrors, Dylan hastily dusted himself off. Surprisingly, it was not that bad. Except for his paws, the rest of him was fairly…

A hard grip seized him by the shoulder.

"And just where do you think YOU'RE going, kid?"

It was the same voice he'd heard berating the two 'reporters' earlier Before the young fox had time to even think of an answer, he was hauled roughly to his feet and spun around to find himself looking upwards at an elk in police-tac gear.

His expression was anything but friendly.

"I don't stinking believe this," he snorted, staring down at Dylan with obsidian eyes, "first those fake news-nerds and now YOU."

The young fox tried to stammer out an explanation, but before he could manage even half a word, the grip on his shoulder tightened.

And then it let him go and the elk-cop was pointing backwards with a baton, towards the police line.

_"You_  get your thrill-seeking, bushy little tail back behind those barricades right this second, and  _stay_  there! If I catch you on this side of the line again, you're gonna leave here cuffed and in the back of in a police car, got that?"

"Yes sir…yes, sir." The young fox nodded breathlessly. He should have been elated—except there were his backpack and duffel, still hidden halfway under the ambulance; at the moment they were invisible to the cop, but the instant he spotted them he'd realize that _this_ fox-kid was no mere rubbernecker but something else. Dylan was still in the trap, he couldn't make a grab for his stuff without being seen and he couldn't just leave it behind either.

But then the elk-cop turned abruptly and pointed off to the left.

"Hey, you two! Back behind that barricade and right now!"

In that instant, Dylan saw his chance. Dropping to all fours, he snatched up the bag straps in his jaws, and scampered full-tilt for the police line. It looked a thousand yards distant, and with every foot he covered, it seemed to pull that much further away from him, as if his senses were having way big fun at his expense. Any second now, he'd hear the elk's voice calling him back again…or someone else cry out, "Heyyyy, what's that fox kid doing?"

He saw a gap between the barriers, a blessed, wonderful gap, just wide enough for him to pass through with his gear. He altered course by two degrees and made a beeline for the opening.

_"Come on…just a few more feet, just couple more; come onnnnn!"_

Dylan slipped through the gap and stopped, panting hard and letting the bags drop to the pavement. After finally catching up with his breath, he stood up, taking a quick survey of the animals surrounding him.

None of them were paying him any notice, not even the rodents; their attention was all focused elsewhere at the moment, on Finagles to be precise. More than half the crowd had cellphones out, lenses aimed directly at the club; more than a few had brought video cams. One character, a zebu, was toting a camera with a lens the size of a portable SAM launcher. Many of the spectators had brought folding chairs and ice-chests, and there were hard-shell cases and duffle-bags everywhere. Hrmpf, no wonder Dylan wasn't raising any eyebrows; compared to some of the animals here, he was actually traveling  _light._

Wellll, that's what the cops got for staging this circus on a Sunday. If today had been a workday, there wouldn't be half as many gawkers here. And wait a minute this was  _Easter_  Sunday, a day when plenty of mammals would be packed to picnic anyway. Sorry coppers, you brought this on yourselves.

Looking around once more, the young fox had to wonder what the heck these folks expected to see; nothing was going to happen out here, it would all go down inside the dance-club, out of sight if not out of mind.

But then he had to suppress a small shudder; it was a lucky thing for all these would-be Pawparazzi that Finagles had no outside windows; there were weapons inside the place that could mow them down by half in the blink of an eye. He remembered the story of how The Mister had once proposed installing a Gatling gun turret on the club's roof—and had only been dissuaded when his brothers had threatened to quit the gang. It was only a rumor of course, but given The Company boss's increasingly erratic behavior of late, you never really knew with that sea-mink.

Dylan grabbed his bags and started to work his way through the crowd, pausing every now and then to catch his breath. (That run for the barricades had tired him out more than he thought.)

But then he halted in place, nose rippling and tilting upwards. His sharp, vulpine nostrils had just picked up a familiar scent…but his head was refusing to process the information.

_"Wha-heck? Noooo, it can't be_  him!  _No way, Rene!"_

He turned cautiously in the direction of the odor…and then his eyes were blinking like semaphores. It  _was_  him, it was Junior McCrodon—perched halfway up light pole not twenty feet away from where the young silver fox was standing.

Dylan felt his black-furred ears working in confusion. How the heck had Junior managed to get out of there before the cops showed up? Well, never mind; somehow he'd managed it, only…what now?

He didn't need to be clairvoyant to know that Junior didn't like him, and if anything, he liked the young sea-mink even less. On the other paw, like or no like, right now they needed each other. And so the young silver fox swallowed his bile and began moving in the sea-mink's direction.

…and stopped in his tracks, even more confused. What now? Junior looked almost… _gleeful!_

He took a slow step backwards, the way he had come; every single one of his vulpine instincts was screaming like a fire siren. Something wasn't right here, something was VERY much not right here. Spotting a recycling bin on his right—large-mammal size; thank the stars—Dylan hurriedly ducked behind it, watching and waiting for … _what?_

He didn't have to wait for long. Just then, the crowd parted and a midnight-grey Hump-Vee nosed its way through the throng, pulling to a halt less than ten feet away from him. The young fox felt his teeth set on edge and his tail starting to frizz; this bad boy was the real deal, not the weekend-warrior knock-off, a gen-u-wine, mil-spec Humper with armored windows and all other trimmings.

That alone shouldn't have been enough to turn the young fox's tail into a bottle brush; compared to at least half the other police vehicles here, it was a Trunka toy.

But when you threw in that lettering on the hood, all bets were off. Dylan Yeats didn't know ACM from ZNN, but this vehicle bore a slightly different acronym, **A.C.C.** , a combination of letters the young silver fox knew much,  _much_  better than he cared to.

He pulled himself even further behind the container. For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then the Hump-Vee's doors swung open and a pair of wolverines got out, one male and the other one female, both of them dressed in coal-black paramilitary gear. Their species alone was enough to give Dylan pause. Back in the pre-evolutionary days, wolverines had been known to take on grizzly bears, even entire wolf-packs…and kick their tails.

But when the male wolverine turned to speak to the female, the young fox's anxiety level went straight into the red zone; the fur of his right paw was the color of a dirty white eggshell.

Dylan had never met this animal, not face to face, but he'd come within a mouse's whisker once…and he'd HEARD plenty about this creep, both from Danny Tipperin and from data that Kieran had shown him.

Just then the female wolverine tapped his arm and pointed with two fingers…

…right at Junior.

And the male's expression became…what the heck? Did he look… _pained?_

He gave a single, weary head-shake, and then stalked over in the sea-mink's direction, beckoning for the female wolverine to follow.

Dylan knew he should get while the getting was good, but right now he was a moth circling candle flame.

_"We have you surrounded…."_

The two wolverines were about six feet away, when Jimmy Jr. spotted them.

…and then he started to…hey, what the heck? He was  _waving_  at them, waving at them like a pair of old school chums! What the  _double_ heck?

"Hey, guys," the young sea-mink called, hanging onto the light pole with one paw and pointing towards Finagles with the other, "Fish in a barrel."

The white-pawed wolverine was in a somewhat less convivial mood. He aimed a finger at the ground in front of him, an angry teacher summoning a troublemaker.

"Get down from there you little idiot, and right  _now!"_

Junior's reaction to this was his most bewildering move yet.

"Hey, you don't talk to me that way." He hissed, but jumped down from the pole just the same…while Dylan stared in total disbelief. Not only was Junior mouthing off to a  _wolverine_ , he sounded almost like…like he was their… No, of course not! Why would he ever be hooked up with  _these_  two?

It was the sea-mink himself who answered the question, thumbing his nose in the direction of Finagle's.

"Gonna ice me NOW, Unkies?" he sneered, and now Dylan got it…or enough of it anyway.

Everyone in The Company knew how badly their boss's health had been deteriorating over the past few months; that, and how much his two brothers  _loathed_  their spoiled-brat nephew. And of course Jimmy Jr. knew it too; how could he _not_  know it? Cripes on a cracker, hadn't Dylan reminded Junior of it himself, only a short while earlier in the boiler room? DUH, The Mister's son knew he was on Denis and Gerry's short list; what no one had ever expected was that he might someday pull enough guts together to actually DO something about it.

Only…what exactly had he done?

_"You now have six minutes…."_

Once again, the answer was not long in coming.

"Did you take care of the computer files?" the white-pawed wolverine asked him.

Junior grinned and tossed him a thumb drive. "Roasted and toasted; worked just like you said, big guy."

Dylan felt his face changing so rapidly he could almost have become a shaper-shifter. In the blink of an eye from he went from confusion, to shock, to unbridled rage. So,  _that's_  what Junior had been up to on Big Brenda.

More than anything else, he wanted to leap out from behind the trash bin and tear that sea-mink punk a new one; he might actually have done it too, if White-Paw hadn't been there.

But then another thought occurred to Dylan, and confusion reigned once more. That still left one thing unexplained; his DAD was in there, along with his uncles; when they went, so would he.

What the HECK was going on?

Meanwhile the wolverine was pocketing the drive but keeping his eyes fixedly on the young sea-mink.

"And did you  _finally_  get us a picture of the silver-fox kid?"

Dylan's ears shot up, and confusion gave way to terror. There could be only ONE silver-fox kid the white-pawed wolverine was talking about.

But then Junior sucked at a corner of his mouth.

"Uhhh, no…sorry dude. Missed that."

White-paw promptly gave him a demonstration of why wolverines are such a dreaded species. Taking two steps forward, he bared his teeth; massive and wickedly sharp, they looked as if they could sever a hawser cable in a single bite.

Dylan nearly bolted, but then he wrinkled his nose instead, "Ewwww."

Mr. White-paw had also just demonstrated why wolverines are sometimes known as 'skunk-bears'.

Or…no, the young fox swiftly decided it was coming from Junior instead—he would have known _that_  stink anywhere—and the sea mink certainly had good reason to lose control of his musk right now; Mr. White-Paw looked as if he were going to plant his tail right  _now._

_"Again?!"_  the wolverine loomed above Junior like a wrathful demigod. "Two whole months and you blew it off  _again?"_

Acting wisely for a change, the sea-mink declined to snark off again; instead he dropped into a half crouch and raised his arms, looking pitiful.

"Hey it wasn't my fault. Cousin Moron and the Dumbaconda walked in on me while I was shredding that folder. I was lucky I got  _that_  much done, okay?"

The wolverine said nothing, only stood with his breath hissing through his teeth.

_"…down your weapons and come out with…"_

"And what do you need a pic for anyway?" Junior waved his paw in Finagle's direction, assuming his patented, poor-pitiful-me fursona. "How many  _other_  silver-fox kids are gonna be in there, huh?"

"There aren't  _any_ silver foxes in there NOW, dumbweed!" Dylan whispered through bared teeth, unable to resist, never mind the situation.

_"…five minutes to comply."_

Surprisingly, Junior's words seemed to pacify the wolverine.

"Yes, of course," he said, moving backwards and clearing his throat. "But now, before someone from the neighborhood recognizes you, James…you need to get as far away from here as possible."

The young sea-mink turned instantly obdurate again. (Cripes, he really  _was_ that stupid.)

"Hey…no way, I wanna see…"

"Say…a week in a Mustelique luxury condo?" White-paw interrupted smoothly, and with a toothy smile.

His ploy worked like a charm. The one time Junior had visited The Billionaire's Island he'd been unable to stop talking about it for a month.

"Yea-haaaaaah,  _now_ you're talking!" He whooped and performed a few hip-hop steps, singing acapella and balancing an imaginary boom box on his shoulder.

_"But you're the real deal…"_

Several nearby animals turned to stare, but Dylan only ducked further behind the recycling bin, rolling his eyes in a mixture of pity and derision; he happened to know the REFRAIN from that particular Gazelle tune.

_"…some are ready to_ bite _you…!"_

(And besides that, Junior McCrodon couldn't carry a tune in A WHEELBARROW.)

When the young fox poked his head out again, a limo had pulled up behind the Hump-Vee, and the female wolverine was holding the door open.

_"That was fast,"_  Dylan thought to himself—a little _too_  fast for it not have been arranged in advance.

_"This is the Zoo York City Police…"_

Junior apparently didn't think of it—or else he didn't care; he practically skipped towards the open door of the limo, but then at the threshold, he stopped and turned nervously in the direction of White-Paw.

…and the last piece of the puzzle finally fell into place

"M-My dad…he only let my uncles talk him into this stuff coz he's sick and he's not thinking right. Your guys won't hurt him…you promised."

The wolverine raised his singular, white paw.

"Didn't my employer already give you his word on that? But all right, if you insist," He put the other paw over his heart and began to recite, "I give you my solemn promise that no one will lay a finger," He nodded over at the bighorn ram in the tank, "—or a hoof—on The Mister, or on you. And now it's time you were on your way." He turned towards the female wolverine, "Ms. Slashburn? Take care of this young mammal, won't you?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Whitepaugh." She answered smartly, and then with a grand sweep of her paw, she gestured towards the open limo door, "Right this way, if you please."

"Oh yeah, I please." Junior smirked, giving her a very good look as he hopped into the back seat. Wolverine or no, this babe was easy on the eyes.

But then, just as the young sea-mink was settling into his chair, she turned away and Dylan saw her face become a mask of revulsion. Reaching into her jacket she pulled out a dart-gun and checked the load.

Dylan almost gasped; he was only able to stop himself by clamping his paws around his muzzle. The pellets in the chamber weren't blue in color but a deep, garnet red.

_"You now have three minutes…"_

In fact, they were the exact same hue as the red pellets Danny had given him earlier; he winced and turned his face away, pulling back behind the bin once more; now, more than anything, he wanted to leap out and shout a warning to the sea mink—but he knew that wasn't on the table either. White-Paw would be all over him in a heartbeat and Junior wouldn't listen anyway _._

When Dylan finally looked again, the limousine was already halfway down the street…and four more wolverines were approaching through the crowd.

Like White-paw they were dressed in tactical uniforms, but in camo-grey rather than black and bearing the letters A.S.M. The entire group was heavily armed.

"Sir!" they barked in unison as they came to an abrupt halt, snapping a crisp salute at Seth Whitepaugh.

Once again, the lead wolverine got straight down to business, pulling out a sheaf of photographs, and passing them around the squad. One of them got away in the breeze, skittering away under the recycling bin…and practically right into Dylan Yeats' paw. The young fox tensed for just a second, but relaxed when no one made an effort to retrieve it; White-paw seemed to have brought along extras, just in case.

"This is the kid, you're looking for." he announced…and Dylan clamped his muzzle with his paws again; he knew precisely which kid the wolverine had to be talking about. But when he took a quick peek at the 8 X 10, he not only felt himself relaxing again, he even had to stifle a  _snigger._

That was him in the photo all right, but you wouldn't know it to look at the young fox now; the kit in the pic was skinny, mangy, a whole lot younger, and his fur was also darker in color. And that wasn't even mentioning his face, a muzzle bent like a crooked 'Z'. Best of all his eyes were barely visible in the photograph, showing none of their distinctive coloration.

But then as quickly as it had arrived, Dylan's moment of relief vanished like chaff in the wind. Even having lived a relatively short life, the young fox already been through enough to know he wasn't getting off _that_  easy.

As if to confirm this, the squad leader clicked his heels. When he spoke, his voice revealed a grating, Teutonic accent.

"Sir, with all due respect, I cannot help but notice that this photo is somewhat dated."

Dylan heard the others murmuring in agreement and saw Whitepaugh nod and curl his lip upwards revealing a fang. (He was still mad at Junior, even now.)

"Yes, that's correct, Hummel. Unfortunately, it's the best picture we have of him at present. However," he unclipped an aluminum bottle from his belt and screwed it open, "We also have  _this."_

Dylan's heart began to gallop as he watched the wolverine pull a swatch of cloth from the cylinder and give it to the squad leader, who pressed it to his nose and inhaled deeply. He knew exactly what was happening…and even if he hadn't, Whitepaugh promptly removed all doubt by saying, "Each of you, take a good, hard sniff. Your target's appearance may have changed since the photograph was taken, but his  _scent_  won't be any different."

Five yards away, their target swallowed hard and looked up nervously at a nearby flag. It was fluttering in his direction and away from the wolverines; he was downwind, safe for the moment.

_"…two minutes to comply!"_

"I want to make one thing crystal clear." The black-clad wolverine was saying, "We want him alive at all costs…if not necessarily unharmed."

"Yes sir," The squad leader answered, "But supposing  _der polizei_ get to him first, what then?"

"Then you are authorized to assume custody." White-paw's voice was as flat as a frozen pond. "Any trouble, you call me directly."

"Sehr gut!" the squad leader answered with another crisp salute and a click of his heels. In other circumstances, Dylan might have found his toy-soldier act almost comic…

A red splotch, the same color as the pellet-darts, fell dribbling onto his cheek. The young fox jumped and almost yipped.

When he looked up, a little wildebeest boy was seated on the bin above him, staring ahead disinterestedly while he absently licked at a pawpsicle.

That was what finally broke the spell. Dylan slipped on the backpack, grabbed the duffle, and then quickly but quietly began filtering his way through the crowd and towards the street.

Almost at once—and unbeknownst to the young fox—the flag he'd been looking at a moment ago went limp…and then it began flapping in the  _opposite_ direction.

_"You now have…"_

Behind him, Seth Whitepaugh abruptly raised his nose and sniffed—and then he stiffened and pointed to two of the squad members. "You…you…with me…now!"

Not far away, Dylan Yeats was at curbside, attempting to flag down a taxi.

They all just zoomed right past him. One of the drivers, a caribou, even yelled out his window, "As IF,  _fox_ -kid!"

_"…and thirty seconds to comply."_

Then the young fox heard a familiar dark voice, coming from somewhere to his rear—and from  _down_ -wind.

"Through here, this way…follow me."

_"…one minute…"_

Dylan searched frantically for something to write on; spotted a pair of ragged cardboard pieces, snatched them up and pulled out a sharpie-pen scribbling furiously. When the next flock of taxis approached they were greeted by the sight of a fox kid holding the first of the makeshift signs high over his head:

**'LaFurdia Airport!**

**Extra $20 Tip 4 U.'**

_That_  did the hat-trick; no one, but THREE different cabs pulled over.

_"Thirty seconds…twenty-nine…twenty-eight…"_

Behind him, Whitepaugh and the others were closing fast, bulling their way through the crowd, pushing the other animals aside and sweeping rodents out of the way with their feet. At the edge of the throng, they found an elephant blocking their path.

"You there, out of the way." Whitepaugh ordered, but the pachyderm only regarded him with a look of lazy disdain.

"You don't look like no cops to me, p—"

That was as far as the elephant got; a split second later he was sprawled on the pavement, face down and groggy while the crowd—typical Zoo Yorkers—hooted and jeered with unfettered glee; an animal  _that_  size, putting down an animal THAT size? You had to love it!

The wolverines didn't love it, they had other concerns right now, at last bursting free of the crowd and into the street beyond.

_"…nineteen…eighteen…seventeen…"_

Dylan Yeats was nowhere in sight.

Whitepaugh immediately ordered the others to fan out in opposite directions. While they rushed to obey, he pulled out a radio and was about to key the mike when he noticed something lying on the sidewalk, a torn shred of cardboard with what looked like fresh lettering on the side He picks it up and sniffed, then turned it over in his paws. The letters,  **"..xtra $20,"** jumped out at him and he sniffed the cardboard again, letting out a small angry growl. The kid had grabbed a taxi—but where to?

He spotted another, bigger piece of cardboard, laying in the gutter and snatched it up. The message was still incomplete but it told him all he needed to know. He hurriedly keyed the mike.

"Red-Fire One to Red-Fire Central, clear all lines, priority transmission. Target silver has escaped the perimeter, I say again, target silver has escaped the perimeter. He is headed for…"

His next words were drowned out as the PA cranked up to full-blast.

_"…three…Two…ONE… ALL UNITS, MOVE IN! **ALL UNITS, MOVE IN!"**_

An even louder pandemonium followed; elephants trumpeting, big cats roaring, wolves howling, and engines revving—mixed together with the whoops and cheers of the onlookers. High above their heads, gas and smoke canisters were already arcing towards the club.

"Red-Fire Central, did you get that? Over!" Whitepaugh was shouting into the mike while cupping a paw over one ear.

The answer was barely audible over, but he heard it well enough.

"Red-Fire One that's an affirmative; we have all available units en route to intercept, over."

"Very well Central," Whitepaugh replied, "keep me informed; Red-Fire One out."

He keyed off the mike and smiled for just a second.

_"Almost boy, but not quite,"_  he thought, looking down at the scraps of cardboard in his paws,  _"You should have taken this with you instead of tearing it up and leaving it here."_

He let the first piece drop but kept the second one.

It read,  **"..unn Statio…"**

"See you at Bunn Station, kid." the wolverine snorted softly and then crushed he scrap of cardboard into a tiny ball

Then he glowered up the street with narrowing eyes….never suspecting for an instant that he was looking in the wrong direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Several more Easter Eggs are to be found here, including a veiled reference to Peter Pan.


	6. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally a character from the Zootopia movie puts in an appearance. (Two characters from the film, actually.)
> 
> But although Dylan may have made it our of Finagles, he still has to make it out of Zoo York, with a zillion-and-one unexpected pitfalls in the way.

**Disclaimer:** Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws

* * *

**The Fire Triangle - A Zootopia Fanfiction**

**Prologue – Escape From Zoo York**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Dylan could have kicked himself from here to Fawntauk Point; he'd been  _so_  sure the taxi-driver hadn't noticed what he was doing.

Yeah, riiiiiight!

"You keep looking in the rear-view mirror mi zorillo; you think someone's _following_  us or something?"

"No, no," The young fox answered quickly. Even to him it sounded unconvincing, but what was he  _supposed_  to say, "Yeah, there's a gang of hard-tail mercs chasing me?" He'd be kicked out of the cab at the next light.

When the trio of taxis had screeched to a halt in front of Finagles parking lot, the question of which to take had been a straight up no-brainer; only one of the three had a fellow predator at the wheel.

At first glance, the young fox had taken him for a black leopard, but a quick examination of the operator's license on the back of his seat had revealed him to be a jaguar; Renato Manchas, late of Caracats Venizuela. He was practically the text-book example of a Zoo York City cab-driver; rosaries dangling from the rear-view mirror, a flat cap perched between his ears, and he'd demanded the $20 tip up front before moving his taxi. (After that, he was all smiles.)

Now when Dylan looked in the rear-view mirror again he caught the jaguar regarding him with a skeptical eye. Dangit, he'd have to give this big cat  _something._

And that was when something Danny Tipperin had told him popped quickly into his head.

"Whenever you run a hustle kid, always— _always_  mix in as much of the truth as possible."

"Okay," the young fox pretended to sigh, "The cops caught me on the wrong side of the police line, back there at Flimflam's or whatever it's called. I managed to boogie before they could grab me, but…well…they were pretty mad." He ended the confession with a helpless shrug and then braced himself, crossing his fingers and praying hard that he wouldn't feel the taxi slowing and angling towards the curb.

Instead, Mr. Manchas gave a shrug of his own, and then he glanced back over the driver's seat with a cool, appraising expression.

"If you really think there's cops behind us mi zorillo, I can find out an' if they're back there, I can lose them…but it will cost you an extra 20."

Dylan considered the offer for a second. It sounded like a come-on—except for the jaguar's tone of voice. There was no teasing in his tone, no puffery; he might just as easily have said, "Yeah, I know how to get to the Barklyn Bridge." (And he wasn't pretending that someone  _was_  trailing his cab.)

It took the young fox only another second to make up his mind. "Do it."

Manchas reached up and turned his cap around.

"Okay then, buckle yourself in good an' hang on."

Dylan already had his seatbelt fastened, but now he cinched it up an extra notch and grabbed the straps with both paws.

Initially, it seemed as if the jaguar had sold him a bill of goods; he just continued along at cruising speed with no alteration in course and/or velocity.

That façade ended at the next red light. Without warning Manchas gunned it through the intersection and swung a hard right, cutting across two lanes of traffic and slewing around the corner with tires squealing. Tearing down the next street at something like just below Mach 1, he turned another smoking right at the next corner, this time without incident; (the light was green here.) The next light was also green but the intersection was blocked by traffic. Manchas swerved into the 'Rodents Only' lane and went flying over the tops of the tiny vehicles at full gallop. Dylan was sure that at any second he'd hear the crunch of the cab's bumper shearing off a mouse-mobile's roof, but the noise never came. Instead, there was only the blaring of a hundred wee car-horns and the squeak of a score of small, angry voices.

Hurtling fast around the next corner, the jaguar found his way blocked by a double-parked delivery van; without even slowing, he swung his taxi into the oncoming traffic lane—and straight into the path of a flatbed truck. Laying on the horn he hit the afterburners, but the truck driver only punched his own accelerator and then the two vehicles were closing at a mind boggling rate. Dylan gaped in horror as the flat-bed seemed to fill the cab's windshield; he could see the other driver now, a Saiga antelope with broken horn, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. It was no use, they were going to hit, they were going to…

The truck swiped sideways at the last second and onto the sidewalk, the antelope cursing out his window as Manchas' cab shot by, missing his driver's side mirror by less than a hairsbreadth.

The turn that followed was the final one—and it was also an anticlimax. Manchas pulled back onto the thoroughfare, the way he'd been going before, and toned it back to cruising speed.

When he looked in the rear-view mirror again, Dylan Yeats was seated with wide eyes, a grimace on his face, and both of his paws splayed outwards and holding onto his seat for dear, sweet life.

"Nah, there's no police following us." The jaguar shrugged, and returned his attention to the road.

Had he looked at the young fox a second longer, the big cat might have noted that his passenger's tail-fur was laying flat rather than bristling; Dylan's look of terror was all just an act. Truth be told, the young silver-fox had been through this kind of joyride many a time before, with Danny Tipperin at the helm. In fact his only thought at the moment was,  _"The Mister could of used a guy like you."_

But of course, he wasn't going to tell Mr. Manchas that—and in fact, the jaguar's evasive driving skills had already caught the attention of another mob boss in another city…who would soon be hiring him on as his fursonal limo driver.

"Okay, I did my part," he finally said, thrusting an open pawlm backwards and between the seats.

"A deal's a deal," Dylan shrugged, passing him the extra 20 as promised.

The jaguar kissed it, and stuffed it the glove-box. But then he glanced in the mirror once again

"You travelin' pretty light there kid." He observed, the tip of his tail is flicking back and forth behind his seat.

Dylan coolly flipped a pawlm back and forth; _this_  time he was ready for it.

"Ahh my grandparents always buy me a ton of extras clothes whenever I go to visit, you follow what I'm bringing out?"

"Oh yeah, I get that," Manchas laughed. "Oh, but I never asked, which airline you flying kid?"

"Ewenited," Dylan answered at once, but then the jaguar's mention of his bags reminded him of something. Unzipping the duffel, pulled out the laptop case; THAT was going on the plane with  _him_. And then as long as he had the bag open anyway, he replaced the laptop with first of the cardboard signs he'd made up, the one reading ' **La Furdia Airport'…** etc.

Hopefully Mr. White-Paw had found what was left of the other sign and sent his goons to Bunn Station instead of elsewhere. Dylan hoped like anything that he had; if the wolverine figured out where he was  _really_  going, he'd have plenty of time to search the airport before the young fox's flight departed.

Arriving at LaFurrdia after what seemed like a three hour ride, Dylan paid his fare and parted company with Manchas, He gave it a couple of extra minutes to make sure the jaguar was gone, and then slipped on the 'Unaccompanied Minor' placard and slipped inside the terminal.

Instead of heading for the baggage check or the ticket counter however, the young fox went straight to the escalator that led downstairs to the arrival level. From there he made a beeline to The Port Authority Welcome Center. Twenty minutes later, he was seated on a southbound Airporter Shuttle, sandwiched between a family of pangolins who wouldn't stop arguing and a lion who looked like he was either going to pass out or puke all over the floor at any second.. They were not the most pleasant of traveling companions, but Dylan hadn't chosen to sit here for the camaraderie; if pressed later on, none of these animals would remember the fox who'd been seated between them on the shuttle-bus.

In fact, although the young fox couldn't possibly know it, his improvised evasion scheme was working out even better than he'd imagined.

First of all Bunn Station; not only did that destination offer dozens of rail connections out of town, it was also Zoo York City's best and most convention connection with the area's second busiest airport, Zooark. When White-Paw's thugs hadn't found him at the train station, they logically assumed that ZWR had been his next stop…and searching that place would take forever.

Second, even if Dylan's pursuers did manage to find out where Manchas had dropped him, La Furrdia offered no connecting flight to his final destination; if he could get out of Dodge before White-paw's crew caught up with him the wolverines would end up searching for their quarry in the wrong cities.

If…

Exiting the shuttle at his (real) destination, Idlewilde Airport, Dylan quickly found that his placard had an almost magical effect on the Furgin Airways skycaps. One look at the words,'Unaccompanied Minor' and the trio of camels were practically falling all over each other to see which one could be the most helpful. (Never mind that their passenger was fox.) Yes, they wanded the duffle before accepting it, and yes, they zipped it open and took a gander inside, but after that their efforts put the 'curse' in cursory; they never came close to finding Dylan's 'flashlight', much less discerning it's true purpose, and the backpack and laptop case they ignored altogether. (Carry-on items weren't  _their_  problem.) In no time flat Dylan had his bag checked and was good to go.

Wellll maybe not quite  _that_  good; he still had to clear the MSA (Migration Safety Administration) security station. It was  _not_  something the silver fox was looking forward to, here was the make-or-break point of his journey; if it was going to happen, this was where John Law would find the contraband secreted in his backpack.

 _"Either way, at least it'll be over with quick,"_  the young fox told himself.

His next thought was,  _"Somebody, slap me!"_

The line of animals waiting to get through the MSA inspection station was so long it could have been for a sneak preview of the next Avfurtar movie, snaking through what looked like two miles of posts and nylon ribbons. No allowances had been made for species size either; it was one line fits all. Twice as Dylan approached the throng, he saw a rodent nearly getting squashed underfoot. And while a fox, even a young one, wasn't quite _that_  small, there were still plenty of mammals in that queue whose feet could turn him into floor-kill with only a single misstep. The one saving grace was that such a thing was unlikely in a line that was barely moving at all.

When Dylan came closer, he understood why.

The animals running the show were of a singular and distinctive species; coarse, gray fur, long, trailing limbs, blunt, crescent-shaped finger-claws, and caterpillar necks. Every single one of them was wearing a dazed, vacant expression, and moving with all the blinding speed of a slug suspended in mineral oil.

"Aggggggh, grrrrrrr…nooooo, not  _now!"_

No one turned to stare at the angry young silver fox; most were too busy grumbling themselves.

Had Dylan had given voice to precisely  _why_  he was so miffed it might have been a different story.

He had made it out of Finagles, gotten through the police barricades, successfully evaded White-Paw's posse, found a taxi to take him to La Furrdia, and made it from there to Idlewilde undetected by his pursuers.

And now here he was, less than 50 yards from his gate, being held up by a bunch of blankety-dang…

 _"Slothssssss!"_  He groaned, drawing out the word like taffy, and then still fuming, he took his place at the end of the line and settled in to wait his turn.

There was nothing else he could do—and here was where he was at his most vulnerable. If the white-pawed wolverine caught up with him at the MSA checkpoint, Dylan wouldn't just be toast, he'd be  _burnt_  toast; point at anyone near an airport security check and yell 'Stop him!' and watch what happens, (especially if you're in uniform.)

The 'airport music' playing in the background wasn't making it any easier. When Dylan looked at his watch, he saw that it was 11:30. Two hours later he looked again, and it was 11:35. After another ten years of this madness, the young fox was finally able to observe what was going on at the head of the line.

What he saw there did  _not_  exactly fill him with confidence.

Standing beside the X-ray machine, one of the sloths was moving a wand over a muskrat in a business suit…so slowly that it would almost have required time-lapse photography to detect any movement; all the while the rodent kept looking anxiously from his watch to the departure board. Meanwhile another sloth, a female, was examining a blackbuck's passport—and making notes in the manner of a monk copying an illuminated manuscript. Even worse was the sloth in charge of the conveyor belt. When he reached to retrieve an item coming through the x-ray, his arm movements were like those of a crane in one of those, 'grab-a-prize' arcade games; not only did he seem to take forever, but he dropped practically everything he picked up. A little deer-fawn, seeing this, jerked on her mother's sleeve and pointed, "The clawwww."

"Whoa where do they GET these guys?" a rumbling voice lamented six paces ahead of where Dylan was standing.

"Rejects from the DMV." Another voice answered, drawing a short mirthless laugh from several of the others waiting to go through.

And the real trip was the metal detector.

There were actually three of them, one for rodents, another one for small-mammal species, and a third for the larger mammals. In theory that should have helped to move things along more smoothly; in practice, the sloths were permitting no more than one animal to go through the detectors at a time.

And they were more than capable of enforcing that command; the MSA security detail was made up of a dozen animals of mostly divergent species, all of them large, and all of them of a type you DON'T want mad at you. Their number included a water buffalo, a grizzly bear and a giant sable antelope to name just three.

Typical of the MSA, the large mammal metal detector was too built low to accommodate everyone trying to go through. That was no problem for Dylan or any of the other smaller species, but not so for the big boys and girls; at least half the larger mammals were obliged to duck their heads as they passed through the third metal detector. Several smacked their foreheads on the top bar when they didn't dip down low enough. One of them, a giraffe, had to practically perform a limbo dance in order to make it underneath.

And then to add injury to insult, no sooner was he on the other side of the detector, than one of the sloths pointed towards his feet, "Please…remove…your…shoes …sir…"

When the giraffe reached for the first lace, his long neck caused him to lose his balance and he went toppling to the carpet, face first while a small gaggle of rodents scurried desperately out of the way.

The sloth just watched him expressionless for a moment.

And then…

"Sir…please…remove…your…shoes."

"I  _told_  you not to wear those things!" said his girlfriend, who'd just followed him through.

While all this is going on, a red squirrel had gotten her tail caught while pushing a bag onto the conveyor and was pulled being through the x-ray machine along with it. When she came through on the other side, the sloth in charge only shook his head, "No…cutting…ahead, Ma'am. Please…return to…the…end…of… the line.

The worst case scenario was what happened if you or any of your carry-ons triggered an alarm. Set off a red light and a warning buzzer and you were immediately directed to the secondary search area.

The good news was that secondary searches were  _not_ conducted by sloths…the bad news is that they were handled by  _porcupines._ And from behind any number of screens, the results of their efforts could be heard, loud and clear. ("Ow! Oh! Ahhh! Owch!")

As he finally closed on the head of the line, Dylan also closed his eyes, fingering his 'Unaccompanied Minor' sign and flashing back to what the Mister had said when he'd been given this job.

"They won't search no KID…"

Yes, well the fat jerk been equally certain that the meeting he'd called for today would be a slam-dunk…and how had THAT worked out?

As if in response to that thought, the words began to chant in in head like a mantra:  _"They won't search no KID…" They won't search no KID…They won't search no…"_

"Hey, wake up little silver fox, you're next."

With an effort Dylan pushed his pack and the laptop case onto the conveyor. (It was a little high for a fox his age…but because he  _was_  a fox, he knew that no help from anyone else would be forthcoming.)

Pursing his lips, he sucked in air between his teeth and then stepped through the metal detector. This was it; here was where he'd either get busted or be sent on his way, scot-free.

He moved through the metal detector…nothing.

A sloth wanded him…silence.

Crossing his fingers Dylan turned and saw the backpack and laptop emerging from the x-ray. Eeee-yeah! Home free…

A red light flashed and a buzzer sounded.

Dylan shifted his gaze to the right and tried had to swallow the brick in his throat. The head sloth's finger claws were pointing straight towards the secondary search area and his normally vapid features had morphed into chilled granite.

"Over…there…please…"

Dylan just stared helplessly for a second…but then he noticed that the sloth wasn't looking at  _him;_  his eyes were aimed up and  _over_  the young fox's shoulder.

He turned and looked. Standing behind him was a yak with matted fur, six rows of beads darped around his neck, and six thousand flies buzzing around his head.

"Heyyy wait, chill out lil' slow guy, everything's cool." Yax held up his hooves as if to show he wasn't missing any fingers, "They're  _oil-lamps,_  dude."

"Over…there…sir." The sloth repeated, a bit more forcefully this time, and this time there was no doubt he was speaking to the yak and not to Dylan.

Dylan grabbed for his pack and laptop case…cautiously at first, but when no one seemed to object, he literally snatched them off the conveyor and went scampering down the concourse as fast as his feet could take him.

One more hurdle cleared.

A short while later the young silver fox was seated in the terminal's food court, busily working on a pizza from Wolfgang Pack Express. On the seat beside him, the laptop bag and the backpack were sitting with their straps looped through the chair-back (so as to discourage any would be snatchers)

Dylan's chair bounced slightly as someone took the large species table behind him, a pair of someones as things turned out.

"Hey Rob."

"Hey Paul…you made it."

"Yeah, just barely. Dang MSA sloths; I've got a good mind to…Heyyyy, wait a minute, what's going up there? I-Is that  _Finagles?"_

At the mention of this name, the young fox nearly dropped his pizza slice.

Looking upwards, he spied an overhead flat-screen display, showing a slowly rotating aerial view, obviously from a helicopter. In the lower-left corner he could see the ZNN news logo and a headline reading, "Shoot-Out in Zoo York's Dumbo District."

By now the sun had set and twilight had fallen, ("It took me THAT long to get through security?") but swathed in the beams of a dozen searchlights, the dance club was still recognizable.

It was also on fire, all of it, the entire building; flames gushing from every opening while a monstrous column of smoke and embers twisted skyward from the shattered roof.

Dylan turned to look at the other table for a second.

"What the heck  _happened?"_  An eland was asking, pointing at the screen.

"Wha…where've you BEEN?" his companion, a giant panda seemed amused by his tablemate's ignorance, "It's only been on every news-channel, all dang  _day."_

"I was in a meeting with Bronkowski, remember?" The eland answered, with an irritable snort, "and you know what he's like; NO outside distractions, period."

"Right, right," The panda admitted, and then waved up at the screen, "Well what happened was, when the cops raided Finagles, they…"

Dylan turned towards the screen again just as the antelope interrupted, "Wha—cops? You mean that place really WAS owned by a gang of gunrunners?"

"Yes, that's right, The Company," Now it was the panda who sounded irked, "Yes, it was, and do you want to let me finish or what?"

"Sorry, go ahead," the eland told him.

The panda grunted and continued.

"Yeah, well the ZYPD raided the place while The Company guys were in the middle of a big meeting of some kind. And for some reason, nobody knows why yet, they decided to shoot it out rather than give themselves up. 'You'll never take us alive,' that kind of thing."

The eland blew a note through his nostrils, short, low, and mournful.

"Whoa, looks they got their wish all right. No  _way_  could anyone have gotten out of THAT place alive."

Dylan pushed his food aside and started to get up from the table...and then forced himself to sit down again and continue eating.

His odyssey was far from over and he needed to keep his strength up.

But even after he left the food court, there was no escape for the young silver fox. Every TV in the airport seemed to be tuned into the story of The Company's last stand; here it was in the bookstore, there it was in the souvenir stand, even the flat-panel TV in the duty-free shop was displaying the same image (albeit with Chinese commentary.)

Well at least he wouldn't have to put up with it for long, Dylan reasoned. It was only an hour until his flight boarded and then he wouldn't have to hear it any more if he didn't want to.

When he finally got to his gate however, it immediately occurred to the young silver fox that someone up there must have a REALLY sick sense of humor.

No, Whitepaw wasn't there, waiting to greet him, nor was anyone from the ZYPD to be seen, lurking about. But practically every single one of his fellow travelers was wearing an expression of either frustration, impatience, or outright disgust.

A sense of dread foreboding washed over the young fox. Oh, noooo…it  _couldn't_  be.

He turned and looked up at the Departures screen, and saw a red-lit message flashing beside one of the flights.

Flight FG311…

…HIS flight.

The message read,  **"Delayed…Delayed…Delayed…"** but to the young silver fox's eyes, it  _actually_  seemed to be saying,  **"Ha Ha, Delaaaaaayed…. Ha Ha, Delaaaaaayed… Ha Ha, Delaaaaaayed…!"**

It took every single ounce of effort not to fox scream; even more when Dylan asked the Bushbuck behind the boarding counter how long the delay was going to be. She responded with a bland, "It shouldn't be too long," the actual meaning of which, (the young fox was certain,) was probably, "I hope you brought your sleeping bag, kid."

Giving up at last, Dylan slunk over to the waiting area and plopped himself into one of the small-mammal chairs, folding his arms like cub refusing to eat his dinner.

That was when his first piece of genuine good luck finally reared its head. Glancing momentarily to the left he spotted a sign on one of the supporting columns,  **"Free Wi-Fi For All Passengers."**

Wi-Fi? Oh for Cripes sake!

 

He pulled out the laptop from the travel-case and flipped it open, plugging in a pair of earbuds and oh look…there was an electrical outlet on the table beside him. Better and better…

…and that was when he spotted something he hadn't noticed before. This laptop was no wimpy student's model. The case was at least an inch thick, and constructed of bullet-proof carbon fiber; to call this bad boy a 'rugged' laptop would have been like referring to a main battle tank as a 'rugged' vehicle. No product logo was visible anywhere on the device, and Dylan realized at once that this was a custom job; Kieran had probably built it himself. (Towards what end, the young fox had no idea—although he strongly suspected it had something to do how Finagles had come to end up a burning ruin.)

Pushing the thought aside, Dylan reached and dug deep in his left side pants pocket. He was sure that he'd been set up again; that the thumb drive Kieran had given him would be absent without leave, but nope, there it was, right where he'd put it.

He pegged it into a USB port and waited.

A small window appeared on the screen, ' **Password?'**

Dylan typed it in and hit 'Enter.' A new window quickly replaced it and he heard Kieran McCrodon's cheery brogue speaking in his earbuds.

"Welcome to the new you, Dylan. This wizard will guide ye through the creation of your new identity. Let's begin, shall we?"

For the next hour and a half, the young fox typed busily, entering data and answering questions. It was an erratic process at best; some of the inquiries practically answered themselves while others required a little thought. His date of birth for instance, when should that be? Couldn't be his actual birthday, duh! But it would have to be a date he'd remember automatically; couldn't have someone asking him down the road, "How'd you manage to forget  _your own_  birthday?"

What should it be, the date of his incarceration in Granite Point perhaps? No, that date would be in Aker's records. The day his mother passed? Another non-starter, his birthday couldn't be on a  _sad_  day. So when..? Wait, he knew. August 19th, the day he'd gotten his bandages off after the surgery to repair his face. Oh yes, he'd never forget that day, or the face he'd seen in the mirror when the last of the gauze had been removed.

And come to think of it, hadn't that been a birthday of sorts, a rebirth-day if you like?

He entered the date and clicked 'Enter'. But the next page was little more difficult.

(Actually, it was a LOT more difficult.)

**Please enter the name you would like to use in the windows below. (All fields required.)**

And underneath,

**Last Name: [______________________]**

**First Name: [______________________]**

**Middle Name: [______________________]**

**(If you do not wish to enter a middle name, please type, 'none'.)**

Dylan thought for a second—then several seconds more. This was about the last decision he wanted to make impulsively but he had no time to linger, the clock was ticking. He closed his eyes for a second and found his mind drifting backwards…to a room with sweeping curtains and pastel walls, the air suffused with a stinging, antiseptic scent. He heard the sound of his own voice speaking, much higher in pitch than normal.

"Conor…could I be Conor?"

The answer came in a voice like dried leaves being crushed, every fourth or fifth word interspersed with a wheeze.

"Conor...Ohhhh, I like that name. Yes, Conor it is."

Dylan opened his eyes and was back in Idlewilde again.

"Conor it is," he repeated under his breath, and entered the name in the middle window.

Okay, that took care of his  _first_  name, but what about the other two? He looked off to the side for a minute, drumming his fingers on the side of the chair.

Five seats away and across the aisle, a pair of young otters were passing the time by reading. The first was browsing Prince Catspian, while her older sister was deep into Harry Potto and the Deathly Howling.

Ohhhh-kay.

Dylan turned back to the laptop and filled in the remaining windows.

**Last Name: [ Lewis]**

**First Name: [Conor]**

**Middle Name [Severus]**

After pausing for a just moment he hit the 'enter' key and a new window appeared.

**Are you sure this is the name you want to use?**

**Yes [_] No [_]**

**Please consider carefully - once uploaded, your new name cannot be changed.**

This time, the young fox didn't hesitate for a nanosecond.

"I'm sure," he murmured, and clicked 'Yes,' then 'Enter'.

The next window that appeared had questions that were both easy and hard. The first one read,

**Father's Full Name, (Last name first.)**

That one was a snap; Last name, Lewis and since the young fox had no idea who his dad really was, he could pick a first and middle name from out of thin air. When the program asked for his mother's name though, that was when things got chancy. Dylan knew his wisest course of action would be to give  _her_  an invented name as well, but try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to go through with it. His mother was the only family that he had ever known, and he didn't want to forget her; giving her a fake name would feel like he was pushing her away.

He compromised finally on an improvised last name and her real first name, (with a different spelling.)

The rest of the set-up turned out to be as simple as it was mundane. Kieran in fact, had already filled out much of it in advance. Dylan's school records, (fake) his medical records and his dental records (slightly modified) were already there and needed only for him to click 'Yes' and 'Enter'.

Other legacies, such as his arrest record and court records were not present—and would be permanently deleted, the young fox knew, as soon as the laptop completed the upload. (Dylan Yeats wasn't the first animal for whom Kieran had created a new identity.)

As he worked his way through the form, the questions asked became more and more persnickety; eventually they became trivial almost to the point of absurdity.

"'Chew gum, yes or no?' What kind of a dink-weed question is THAT?" the young fox muttered irritably to himself, and then checked the 'yes' box anyway. (When Kieran McCrodon said 'all fields required', he  _meant_  'all fields required!")

The next page contained no questions, only a suggestion.

**Before Proceeding, Please Review All Entries. Once Uploaded, This Information Cannot Be Changed.**

**[_] Continue**

**[_] Go Back To The Top Of The Page**

Dylan dutifully went back over the form—twice. Only minor changes were required the first time, and none at all the second. When he clicked on 'Next' after reaching the last page, Kieran's voice came back in his ears once more.

"Right, this is it boyo; if ye click on enter again, there'll be no turning back. If ye're sure ye did things proper, go for it."

There was no way the young fox could be 100% sure he had it right—there were too many unknown factors—but he was as certain as he was ever going to be.

He tapped the 'Enter' key and waited.

A dotted line bounced back and forth across the screen while words flashed underneath.

**"Uploading…Uploading…Uploading…"**

After several more minutes, a final message appeared.

**Congratulations Conor Lewis, and welcome to your new identity.**

**Your new ID has been uploaded to your cell phone, and the appropriate documents will be sent to your final destination no later than two business days from now.**

**Please keep an eye out for them.**

And with that, he was automatically logged off the app.

…just in time to hear a uniformed lioness announce, "Ladies and gentlemammals, we regret to inform you that due to mechanical problem, Furgin Airways flight 113 will be delayed for at least another two hours."

As anyone could have predicted, this news was greeted by chorus of groans, yelps, hisses, and other sundry sounds of displeasure. The white-furred lioness allowed the din to subside before continuing.

"Furgin Airways is truly sorry for the inconvenience, and we shall be happy to assist those passengers who wish to secure an earlier flight on another airline. Those passenger who choose to remain with this flight will receive triple frequent flyer miles, plus a $50 Amooson gift card for those in coach, a $75 gift card for those in business class, and $100 gift card for those in in First Class. "

About half the passengers opted to fly with someone else, and Dylan briefly considered it himself. He finally decided that no, the increased risk of losing his duffel bag made the whole thing not worth it. Instead, beginning to feel the aftershocks of his long day, he tottered over to the flight desk.

"I'm gonna try to lie down and catch some sleep," he said, yawning and pointing to an empty row of seats. Can someone please wake me when it's time to board?"

"Of course," said the lioness, "Would you like a blanket?"

"Yes please," the young fox answered.

"Here you go," the big cat reached under the service counter. "And sorry again for the delay."

Taking the blanket, (which even folded up and bagged, was as big as a pool-raft), Dylan nodded his thanks, and headed back over to the empty row of chairs, lifting his pack up onto a seat to serve as a makeshift pillow. When he unfurled the blanket, it turned out to be the approximate size of a mainsail but the young fox didn't care. He figured he'd never be able to fall asleep  _here_ anyway; even after a good day, that wouldn't happen—much less after a day like today and with the knowledge that Mr. White-paw was still out there searching for him

Instead, the instant he laid his head down he was out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note:
> 
> I recently read a book entitled The Pierre Hotel Affair, about the biggest hotel robbery in the history New York. One of getaway drivers for that job was also a mafia chieftain's chauffeur. According to the author, mob chauffeurs are often chosen for that job on the basis of their evasive driving skills. With that in mind, I figured Mr. Mamchas ought to have a few 'mad driving skillz' himself.


	7. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conor, the silver fox formerly known as Dylan makes his flight, but it's anything but an uneventful trip.

**Disclaimer:** Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws

* * *

**The Fire Triangle - A Zootopia Fanfiction**

**Prologue – Escape From Zoo York**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Dylan felt the cold and damp on his tail first, then his feet were wet, and then the soaking chill was crawling up his legs.

He shot upright as though is back were spring-loaded, looking wildly around the terminal. His body felt as though it had been charged with 20,000 volts of static electricity.

The airport was deserted; he was completely alone—and the floor was also knee deep in water. There was no electricity; all the lights were out and every board and display was dark; he could only see by way of the crisscross beams of the emergency lighting. The air around the young fox seemed to swirl with a billion dust particles, every time he moved.

He reached for his backpack. It was gone. He looked for the laptop. It too had vanished. How had Whitepaw pulled this off? Never mind, the water was rising, and rising fast. He had to get to the gate; the access ramp was safely above the flood-zone; if he could just reach the gate he'd be safe.

Dylan slipped off the chair—and plunged straight into ten feet of water. He flailed, splashing frantically as he sank into the depths. He tried to scream, but his cry came out as only a string of gurgling bubbles.

Someone grabbed him by the arm, hauling him to safety.

But when he looked, he saw that the paw holding him belonged to a wolverine—and was dirty white in col…

"Wake up, wake up young fox. Your flight is ready for boarding."

In the blink of an eye, Dylan was fully awake.

The terminal wasn't flooded, it wasn't deserted, and it still had power. The paw gripping his arm was white all right, but it belong to a lioness rather than a wolverine..

And she was looking at him with an alarmed expression…oops.

"Sorry," Dylan apologized rubbing the back of his neck. "Bad dream,"

The big cat relaxed, but not completely.

"All right then, but now hurry up and join the queue." She was pointing to the line of animals stacked up at the boarding gate.

The next thing she said was, "Excuse me, is this yours?"

Dylan turned and saw the lioness holding the laptop case.  _"Agggghhh, grrrrr, DUMB fox!"_  He could have face-pawlmed himself from here to Los Antelopes. Nearly leaving THAT behind, way to go Lionstein!

When his turn to board finally came, things did not seem to improve for the young silver fox. The flight attendant, a female muntjac deer took one look at his ticket and began to flip her ears back and forth.

"Oh, but you should have boarded first."

That made Dylan's ears get moving—out to the side and backwards.

He stifled another fox-groan. Just when you think you're past the final roadblock…! And dangit, it wasn't  _his_  fault; they should have woke him up earlier.

"Is that a problem?" he asked, somehow managing to keep his voice on an even keel.

"Oh no," the muntjac doe reassured him, "Not at all. It's just that you could have boarded with the other first class passengers. Anyway, you're in seat D2." She noted the straps cinched around the young fox's shoulders, "Do you need any help getting your pack stowed in the overhead?"

"Please." He answered, looking relieved and feeling a small, wistful shaft at the same time. A first class ticket; wasn't it just like Kieran to book the best and leave it for a surprise? (Of course it hadn't cost the sea-mink a dime; he'd obtained the ticket by way of his hacking skills.)

Kieran, whom he was never going see again…bag it, Dylan!

 _"No, not Dylan, it's_ Conor  _now."_ The realization hit him with the jolt of a Taser dart.

(What the young fox could NOT realize was that while he'd been sleeping, Seth Whitepaugh had managed to track him as far as LaFurrdia airport—and there the trail had gone cold. Dylan Yeats, the boy he'd been searching for, had by that time ceased to exist.)

If the muntjac deer took notice of his agitation she gave no sign of it. Turning to her left, she signaled with a hoof to another one of the flight attendants.

"Tshonga, can you help this young fox with his pack please?"

"Right away, mam." A caracal cat answered, offering up a pearly grin.

Dylan quickly learned what the deer had meant when she said he could have boarded first. His seat was only three rows back from the cabin door, (and was also a window seat.)

"So what brings you on board today, young fox?" the Afurican lynx inquired as Dylan settled into his chair.

"Gonna visit my grandparents for a week," the young silver fox answered, another well-rehearsed line that rolled easily off his tongue.

"Ah, very good," the caracal nodded and then pointed to the laptop, "do you wish to put that in the overhead as well, or would you prefer to keep it with you?"

Dylan, aka Conor, thought it over for a second.

"Is there Wi-Fi on this flight?" he finally asked.

Tshonga nodded at once. "Yes young fox, free with all first class tickets. It will be available as soon as the captain turns off the 'fasten seat-belt sign.'

"Then I'll keep this with me," Dylan (now Conor) answered patting the case and then stowing it under his seat.

"Very good," Tshonga said again, and then turned, leaped upwards and dunked the young fox's backpack easily into the overhead luggage compartment, closing it with his other paw—a neat, fluid move that took him all of half a second.

Dylan (Conor) wanted to applauded. He had read somewhere that caracal cats were spectacular leapers, but he had never actually seen it before just now.

"If there is anything you need, please do ask me." The feline finished, with a slight bow. "I am Tshonga."

"Thanks, Tshonga." Conor (Formerly Dylan) answered, a little embarrassed. He was so unused to being treated deferentially—in his young life, it had been mostly just the opposite—that now he found it actually made him uneasy.  _"I'm gonna have to work on that,"_  he told himself.

"You are most welcome." The caracal said, and hurried off to assist a pair of elderly hamsters in the Rodent Section across the aisle, (located directly above the overhead carry-on compartment.) He had only been gone for a half a minute when another rodent, a woodchuck appeared and prepared to take the seat beside the young fox.

But then he noticed who was sitting in the space next to his and turned towards the front of the cabin, beckoning with a crooked finger.

"Excuse me…someone?"

Tshonga was there almost immediately.

"Yes sir?"

"Er, have you got another open seat?" The woodchuck asked, indicating Dylan (Conor) with an open paw. "I really don't want to sit next to a…err, that is I have work to do, and I need to concentrate, so is it possible…?

"I-I-I think we have another seat open, sir." The caracal answered, throwing Dylan an apologetic look. He knew as well as the fox did the REAL reason the woodchuck didn't want to sit here.

They moved off towards the rear of the cabin as Dylan reached to fasten his seat-belt…unaware that that the rodent who'd just snubbed him had a history with foxes—one that went all the way back to his days as a Junior Ranger Scout.

Neither could the silver fox have imagined that someday he and this woodchuck would meet again—and that it would be an even less pleasant encounter than this one.

...a MUCH less pleasant encounter!

He had to wonder though, how Tshonga had been able to accommodate the rodent's request so easily.

A look around the cabin answered that question. Only two-thirds of the seats were occupied, and the large-mammal section in the back had even fewer passengers. Furgin Airlines was sure as heck taking a bath on this one.

Then the cabin door began to close and the muntjac deer was standing with a microphone in her hoof.

"Ladies and Gentlemammals, please fasten your seat belts and prepare for departure…"

A moment later they were rolling out onto the taxiway. Outside the aircraft, a hard rain had begun to fall, and Conor could see that the tarmac was dappled with puddles.

At the head of the runway, the plane stopped for just a second, as if trying to make up its mind…and then plumes of water spurted from beneath the tires as the aircraft surged forward, rapidly gathering speed and lifting smoothly into the air.

As the airliner gained altitude, it slowly banked to the right. Outside his window, in the far distance, Dylan could see a faint, reddish glow.

It couldn't be Finagles of course, the ZYFD must have put out that fire by  _now_. Just the same Conor Lewis, the young fox formerly known as Dylan Yeats felt his throat twist into a granny-knot

"G'bye Danny…G'bye Kieran" he murmured softly, "Thanks for the first class ticket."

It sounded pitiful even as he spoke the words, but what the heck  _else_  was he supposed to say?

He reached over and closed the window shade.

 _"No looking back,"_  he swore to himself and then _lay_  back, closing his eyes for minute.

When he opened them again, the cabin lights were dimmed and the seat-belt sign was off.

So much for only a minute, but not everyone was asleep; several of the passengers were up and moving about the cabin; an aardwolf, a brush-tailed opossum, and a leaf-nosed bat, nocturnal species all. Dylan, excuse me, Conor noted with amusement that the bat had taken wing and was flittering towards the front of the cabin.

 _"He's flying faster than the plane is going."_  The young fox chuckled to himself.

He looked at his watch, wondering how long he'd been asleep…and groaned inwardly; he had no idea. When he'd boarded the plane, he hadn't thought to look…Aggggh, grrrr!

Feeling like King Moron, he pressed the flight-attendant call-button.

Once more Tshonga appeared within seconds.

"Can I get you anything, young fox?"

Conor rolled his lips together, not looking at the caracal, "Uhm, this is going to seem like a really dumb question, but uhhhh, what time did we finally take off? I was so hot get on board the plane, I forgot to check."

The caracal gave a short laugh.

"Not to worry, you're actually the fourth passenger to ask me that question. We departed Zoo York at 3:45 AM, Eastern Standard Time."

Conor (Dylan) sighed and almost groaned again; more than six hours late, no wonder the stupid plane was half empty.

He looked up at Tshonga again

"Thanks, listen as long as you're here, can you get me a Morn…"? He stopped, barely suppressing a hard grimace, "Errr, I-I mean a  _Mountain_  Mew?

"Coming right up," the Caracal answered, and went away for a moment.

When he was gone, the young silver fox puffed out his cheeks and glanced upwards towards the overhead compartment, where the red pellets Danny had given him lay hidden inside his backpack. He couldn't believe he'd come that close to saying…well, never mind, he _hadn't_  said it.

Still, he'd have to mind his words carefully from now on; there was no longer anyone to cover for him when he made a mistake like that.

The unexpected realization made Dylan ("That's CONOR!) shudder a slightly. He really was on his own now, the last surviving member of The Company, albeit only an honorary member, (if that!)

Lying back in his seat once more, he tried to get his breathing under control, closing his eyes and clearing his mind, counting each individual inhalation and exhalation. (A method Kieran had taught him.)

He opened his eyes again just as Tshonga returned with his soda. When the caracal was gone, he took a long sip and tried to think.

Was that really true,  _was_  he the last of The Company mammals? He was probably—almost certainly the only one who'd made it out of Finagles in one piece, but was there anyone else who could have slipped the net…someone who  _hadn't_ been there? None of the actual gang members fit that category; per the Mister's orders every single one of them had been inside the club with him when the hammer dropped.

But like any good criminal enterprise the Company had numerous associates and free-lancers at their beck and call, the chemists who ran their bootleg pharma labs, the pilots and freighter captains who smuggled their weapons, the bankers and accountants who laundered their money. Would that white-pawed wolverine (or rather the slimeball he worked for) go after any of  _them?_

No, the young fox swiftly decided, no those guys were safe, at least as long as they didn't cause Aker any  _more_  trouble. He couldn't say why he thought this; it was only a gut feeling, but hadn't Danny Tipperin once told him that sometimes a gut decision is the most logical move you could make?

Yes the swift fox had said that, and…

_"Not so fast kid, what about The Circle?"_

Conor felt his breathing ramping up again. No, Kieran McCrodon's crew of hackers was most definitely NOT in the safety zone. When the sea-mink had cracked The Aker Correctional Corporation database, they'd assisted him every step of the way. That alone would be enough to put them on White-paw's radar screen—and according to what Danny had said, the wolverine's boss knew only one solution to that kind of problem; kill it.

Somehow the young fox had to warn them; easily done from Finagles boiler room, but by now that place was charcoal.

_"Wait, hold it, hollllld it."_

Looking around to make sure no one was watching, Conor-formerly-Dylan pulled out the laptop from under his seat and booted up. Maybe—just maybe it had the #giantsdance app installed.

He opened the laptop's search window and typed in 'dissonance.' There were only three items with that name in the database, but only the first was the one he wanted. He double clicked the icon and waited for the program to open.

A split second later the 'password' window appeared. Conor typed his in and clicked enter.

An animated fidget spinner appeared on the screen, whirling rapidly and throwing off spots of light like a mirrored disco globe. Underneath the logo were the words. "Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night', whatever the heck  _that_  meant.

Then the spinner vanished and Conor found himself inside a chat-room…but not the one he wanted. This one was the #general chat; the one he was looking for was #giantsdance; if there were any members of The Circle online at the moment, the Giant's Dance chatroom was the most likely place to find them.

There was no room by that name listed on the sidebar, but the young fox knew the secret. Opening the help window he typed in this username and password and clicked enter. Immediately a request appeared.

**"Put your eye to the webcam and keep it open for at least five seconds."**

Hoping none of the other passengers would see what he was up to, Conor did as the program instructed. After three more seconds he found himself in the Giant's Dance chat room.

That was the good news; the bad news was that he was the only one there, and no one else had logged on since at least three hours before he'd boarded his flight. Disappointed but not surprised, he typed in a brief message and clicked Enter.

Felsogud+220: "Code APOC. This is not a drill. Ping me as soon as you log on."

He sat back in chair to wait. APOC was a corruption of the word 'Apocalypse', and it meant exactly what it implied, a catastrophe of biblical proportions.

But then, to the young fox's surprise, someone answered.

Cambrill64%: "What, R-U C-rus?" (What, are you serious?)

 _"She must have been lurking in 'invisible',"_  Conor said to himself as he entered his reply.

Cambrill was not one of his favorites in The Circle. She (Conor was fairly certain Cam was a 'she',) had the annoying habit of typing everything in online short-paw. Some of her messages were so cryptic even Kieran had needed clarification once in a while. Right now however, the young fox would take any member of The Circle he could get.

Felsogud+220: "To quote the Raven, Nevermore! Mainframe offline. Oysters#688&I either ded or in custody. Druid missing. I'm on the run. "

Oysters was Kieran McCrodon's username; neither Cambrill, not anyone else the Circle was aware that he and The Druid were (had been) the same mammal. And Conor had no intention of letting that secret out, even now. The sea-mink would have wanted it that way.

Cambrill didn't answer right away, and for a second the young fox was afraid that she'd bolted.

But then another message appeared.

Cambrill64%: "U cn-tctd N-E1 else yt?" (You contacted anyone else yet?)

Conor answered her.

Felsogud+220: "No, U 1st 1 I C." (No, you first one I see) and then he snarled inwardly.

_"Agggghhh, grrrr, now she's got ME doing it!"_

He continued in normal script.

Felsogud+220: "Would have notified you earlier, but had to make a run for it. Only able to get online now."

"Can U talk?" she asked him. Conor stared with one eye at the screen. Talk? What the plinkity-dang did she think he was doing  _alrea_ …? Oh, right.

Felsogud+220: "Can't use voice, might be overheard. Text only."

Cambrill64%: "U safe?"

Felsogud+220: "For now. Can you warn any of the others?"

"Yes pnging Jabbadawok and Donquare rt nw. Will tll thm2 spred word when I C. Ok GTG."

And with that, she was gone.

Conor wasn't offended by the brush-off. While Kieran had often allowed him to hang with some of The Circle, (under supervision of course,) and they had liked him for the most part,, he still wasn't ONE of them. And while none of The Circle, save Kieran were aware he was just a kid, they did recognize that he was still a newbie at computer hacking—a talented newbie to be sure, but still just a newbie. However much potential as a hacker the young fox might possess he was several years at least from being in the same league as Cambrill, much less Guildenkranz or Jabbadawokky.

A cold shudder rippled down the young fox's back. JabbaD, what the HECK had Kieran been thinking when he'd brought  _that_  psycho into The Circle? Mad computer skillz or no, JabbaD was Catilla The Hun with a desktop—and with Kieran no longer around to restrain him…

Conor didn't want to think about that right now; he had problems enough of his own.

He rang for Tshonga again, ordering another Mew and 'something munch on.' (At this point, the pizza he'd had back at the terminal felt like ancient history.) A moment later, the caracal returned with his drink and two bags of trail mix. Conor dove into the first one and ate the second bag at a somewhat more leisurely pace.

It was far from the only thing the young fox had to chew on. Had Cabrill had been sincere in her promise to spread the word to the others? For all Conor knew, she might have cut and run the instant she logged off #giantsdance; the temptation was certainly there. He didn't even know if she'd really warned Donquare33X% and Jabbadawokky2B#d.

Well, whatever had happened, the young fox knew he'd done his part. Still, it would be a good idea to stay logged into the Giant's-Dance chatroom for a while and see if any of the others logged on. He wished like anything that Guildenkranz93+X& would show up. Next to The Kieran himself, Guild had been far and away the most capable of The Circle's hack squad—and also the most level headed. Present company excluded, he was the closest thing to a protégé the Druid had ever taken on.

He was also something of an odd duck amongst the group; while the others were motived by greed, curiosity, or in the case of Jabbadawocky, just plain nihilism, Guild was a genuine cyberwarrior. He had joined The Circle in the hope of uncovering corporate malfeasance— and where Aker was concerned at least, he hadn't been disappointed. His real bête noir however was the banking community—and luckily for him neither The Mister nor his nephew had owned any qualms about hacking into a bank's data-base. While they'd never exactly given Guild free rein, neither had they made any attempt to muzzle him.

Conor took another pull of soda and some more of the trail mix. Guild was also the closest thing  _he_  had to a friend now that Danny and Kieran were gone. T Though they'd chatted only a grand total of three times, the young silver fox had found himself drawn to the unknown hacker's sense of gallantry—even if Guild's attitude had been a little too cynical for his tastes; you did NOT make the world a better place by hooking up with the likes of The Company. (And he must have at least suspected who he was  _really_  working for.)

Of course Conor had served the Company's interests as well. True, he hadn't been a willing participant—it had been that or Granite Point—but in his former life as Dylan Yeats, he'd still done many things he wasn't proud of now.

Former life…

What was it Danny had said to him?  _"It's your life kid, so go get that money and go live it."_

Well, he didn't have the money quite yet, and he might very well step off the plane to find Whitepaw's thugs waiting for him, but still…if he pulled it off what would he do with his life?

Conor thought about it for a minute, and then for many more minutes.

And then he opened up Microsloth Word on the laptop…and then he just sat there, staring at the screen.

What should he call them, his pledges? No, that made it sound like he was joining a fraternity. His resolutions, perhaps? Nuh-uh, this was April not January and how many of those things did folks keep anyway? Oaths maybe? Forget it; that one was just plain weird. All right, then what about promises? Yeah, that would work…at least until he came up with something better.

He flexed his fingers and began to type.

On this day, April 6th

I, Dylan….Agghhh, Grrrrrr!

He face-pawlmed himself and started over.

On this day, April 6th

I, Conor Lewis, make the following promises to myself.

* * *

1\. From this day on, I promise I will never make another crooked dime. I may hustle, but I will never steal, cheat, con, or otherwise do harm to another mammal for cash or anything else. From now until I cack it, I will live my life as an honest fox.

2\. For all the hurt I've laid on other mammals, from now on, I promise to dedicate myself to helping them. I don't how I'm going to do this, but I'll think of something.

3\. I promise, first chance I get, to start going to school again. And when I do, I'm going to study my tail off. Even if I get grades that bite rocks, it won't be because I didn't try.

4\. I promise to keep it up on the guitar, and on singing. That's one thing I know I'm good at and I won't ever stop trying to be better.

* * *

The rest of the promises came more slowly, but the pace picked up considerably when the young fox decided to quit thinking so much and just  _write._  He could worry about what order to put his promises in later. (And he could always add more at a later time.)

After giving the draft a quick examination, he pronounced it, 'so far, so good' and saved and closed the document.

Then he leaned back in his chair again, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Ohhh-kay, what should he do next, order an early breakfast? The eats in first class were primo. Watch a movie? Furgin offered a great selection of films including two that he had missed, Pig hero 7 and Thor Ragnarox

He buzzed for Tshonga once more.

"Can I get blanket and pillow?"

The heck with movies and munchies, right now he just wanted more  _sleep._

He was just about to close his eyes when the honk of a klaxon came from the laptop speakers; this time, someone was paging HIM.

 _"Whoa, good thing I forgot to shut it off,"_  the young fox told himself, sitting up and flipping it open.

The first thing he saw was that the screen was still showing the Giant's Dance chat room. He could see that his screen-name Felsogud was flashing and one other name showing in the sidebar.

It was Guildenkranz, and he had entered only two words in the chat window:

Guildenkranz93+X&: "You there?"

"I'm hheer." The young fox answered quickly, not bothering to correct his spelling. Guild responded less than a tenth of a second later.

Guildenkranz93+X&: "Thank goodness. Your warning's been confirmed. I tried to contact Oysters through a private channel we have. I got back an automated message instead, 'Warning, Code Apok.'"

Conor nodded solemnly even though he knew Guild couldn't see him. It was (had been!) just like Kieran to have installed that kind of fail-safe.

 _"It prolly activated when Brenda went offline."_  He thought to himself; it was but one of The Druid's many tricks of the trade.

Guildenkranz had meanwhile just posted another message.

Guildenkranz93+X&: "Circle's ok. No one else been busted yet."

Conor started to reply, but Guild beat him to the punch

Guildenkranz93+X&: "The reason I pinged you is we took vote and we're calling an EMFOY."

Even though he'd half expected this, the young fox reeled back in his seat so violently he was sure he must have disturbed whoever was behind him. (Fortunately, when he looked the seat was empty.)

EMFOY— **E** very  **M** ammal  **FO** r  **Y** ourself. It meant cease all communications with the other Circle Members, scrub your hard drives, shred your files, destroy all your other hardware, and if you're capable of making a run for it, go and go right  _now!_

It was already a done deal for him of course—and the boiler room. Even if it Brenda was taken offline, everything in that room and the onsite servers could still be set for self-destruct—and knowing Kieran, that would have been the sea-mink's next move after helping him into the escape chute. (Of that, the young fox had no doubt.)

As for the offsite servers—if they didn't hear from Brenda for more than24 hours, every file inside them would be encrypted to an unbreakable level…and then they were supposed to fry themselves.

Guild entered another message.

Guildenkranz93+X&: "We're also calling a VERA for one year from today 12:00 GMT. You're welcome to join us if you like."

Conor felt his eyebrows rise and ears standing up. Okay, THIS was something he  _hadn't_  expected.

Unlike EMFOY, VERA wasn't an acronym; it was taken from the name of Vera Lynx, a singer from way back before the young fox's time; her most memorable tune had been a number called, "We'll Meet Again." What Guild had just told him was that one year from today, the members of The Circle would gather here in the Giant's Dance once again. While Conor wasn't sure if that was such a good idea, he couldn't help but be flattered, even touched by their decision to include him.

Felsogud+220: "I'll be here. And thanks. "

He actually had no idea if he could make it—but then Guildenkranz probably didn't either.

Hisnext message was the biggest surprise of all

Guildenkranz93+X&: "No Fels, thank YOU for giving us that warning. You probably saved all our tails and everyone else agrees, even JabbaD."

Conor grinned slyly as he typed his response.

Felsogud+220: "Hallelujah, miracles exist!"

Guildenkranz93+X&: "Whoa, no snap!"

Guildenkranz93+X&: "Right, see you next year Fels. This server will be shutting down until then, starting in 30 seconds."

As he said this, a countdown appeared on Conor's laptop screen.

…25, 24, 23, 22…

Guild just had time to get it in.

Guildenkranz93+X&: "In the immortal words of Edward R. Burrows , 'Good Night and Good Luck."

…4, 3, 2, 1.

On the count of zero, the chat room vanished and Conor was looking at the laptop's wallpaper again.

He shut down and stowed the computer, and then rolled over and tried to get some sleep. His last thought before the world winked out was that he'd have to add VERA to his list of promises.

This time, the young fox did not dream. When he awoke to the feel of someone nudging his shoulder again, he knew immediately where he was and that the animal trying to rouse him must Tshonga.

He was right on both counts. "Sorry to wake you young fox." The Afurican lynx sounded genuinely apologetic, "But you must put up your seat and fasten your belt. We are preparing to make our final approach for landing."

Blinking twice, Conor saw that the cabin was lit, and that most of the illumination wasn't artificial; daylight could be seen, filtering through the windows.

"Oh, no problem Tshonga," he answered, passing over his blanket and pillow to the flight attendant, "Hey and thanks for everything, okay?"

"You are quite welcome…" The caracal beamed, but then lifted an eyebrow. "You know, I don't believe I ever caught your name."

"Oh, it's Conor…Conor Lewis," the young fox told him, secretly pleased that he had spoken the name without hesitation.

"Ah, a pleasure to have served you Mr. Lewis." Tshonga answered. He offered a brief nod, and then departed.

Conor watched him go, and put up his seat and fastened his belt. When he looked to his right, he saw that the window-shade was still down.

Easily corrected; he reached over and slid it upwards.

And all at once his young face was filled with wonder. There, beyond the window was his destination.

The City of Zootopia.


	8. Prologue -- Conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conor's arrival in Zootopia takes him on an odyssey through the city. Along the way he encounters several of the characters from the film...including another certain member of his own species

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Prologue concludes.

**Disclaimer:** Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws

* * *

**The Fire Triangle - A Zootopia Fanfiction**

**Prologue – Escape From Zoo York**

* * *

**Chapter 8 - Conclusion**

Conor Lewis pressed his paw to the airplane window, not wanting to miss a thing; he was like a fox-pup gazing through candy-store display case for the very first time. Far below, Zootopia's downtown district sparkled in the light of the new morning; so different from the place he'd left behind, so fresh, so new…and so  _clean_ , every skyscraper seemed a work of art, every color seemed bright and vibrant.

And look there…a _waterfall,_  cascading through a green zone between the buildings. If the young silver fox hadn't seen it for himself, he'd never have believed it; grubby old Zoo York was never like this, (not the parts of it  _he'd_ known anyway.)

A soft hiss of static came over the P.A. as the lead attendant took the microphone again.

"Ladies and Gentlemammals, we will be landing at Zootopia International Airport in about 30 minutes. According to the latest weather report, clear weather is expected for the next 48 hours in the greater Zootopia Metro Area; the airport temperature is 56 degrees furenheit with light and variable winds. Now, the plane is descending; please fasten your seatbelts and return your tray tables to their upright positions. Thank you."

Having already complied with these instructions, Conor continued to gaze out the window.

But then the intercom crackled to life once more. This time it was the Captain on the air, speaking to the passengers in a laid-back drawl.

"Good morning everybody—and welcome to Zootopia. On behalf of Furgin Airways, I'd like to think you for flyin' with us…well, except for the fox that is."

_"WHAT?!"_  If it hadn't been for the safety belt, Conor would have been have been halfway out of his seat.

"Just kidding," The captain added quickly, "I'm a coyote myself, matter of fact…and now don't everybody go rushing for the emergency exits at once."

"Don't  _you_  quit your day-job," someone heckled from near the back of the cabin.

Conor recognized the voice; it was the woodchuck again, the one who'd refused to sit next to him earlier.

_"Prolly doesn't like coyotes any more than foxes,"_ he mused to himself. '(Yotes' were also a species that other mammals tended to write off as shifty and untrustworthy.)

Meanwhile the Captain was saying, "As we circle on final approach for landing, we'll be turning on the overhead cameras to give everybody a bird's eye view of the City of Zootopia."

Conor turned in his seat just as the monitor screen in front of him flashed to life, showing an overhead view of someplace called Outback Island, (according to the caption, in the lower left corner)

The resolution was nothing short of breathtaking; he could clearly see the residents below moving about their morning routines. Some were walking but most of them were hopping. As the young fox watched in fascination, a bevy of kangaroos crossed a busy thoroughfare by simply leaping over it in a single bound. The next thing he saw was a pair of koalas, enjoying an early breakfast in a treetop café called the Spreading Eucalyptus.

He was tempted to pay a visit to Outback Island sometime in the near future, but at the same time he was wary. Foxes were not well liked Down Under; in fact Australians generally considered them to be an invasive species.

_"At least I'm not a BUNNY."_  The silver fox reminded himself with a lopsided grin. He wondered if there were any rabbit-proof fences down there on that island.

From Outback Island the plane wheeled westward over the Canal District, with its maze of watery byways, floating restaurants, and literally hundreds of small shops bunched together on the piers and quays. From Conor's perspective, it seemed as if he was flying over a parade of nations all rolled into one; the architecture bemeath was a mashup of that many different types. Here was a bayou jazz club, there, a silk shop that might have been lifted straight from the Meerkong delta, and over to the north, a glassworks that would have done Venicen Italy proud. There was even a section of the canal district that could have passed for a neighborhood in Hamsterdam. Aquatic and semi-aquatic mammals abounded, along with boats of every kind. As the young fox watched from above, a Zodyak launch came to slow stop at an intersection, courteously yielding the right of way to a troupe of swimming muskrats.

How Kieran would have loved this place, the young fox mused sadly—or on reflection, maybe he wouldn't have; the environment below appeared to be mostly tropical and sea-mink like it cold.

As the plane circled north over the Rainforest District, the terrain below all but disappeared from view, hidden beneath the twin canopies of clouds and greenery.

But then approaching the mountains on the district's eastern side, the view became clear once more; Conor could see a myriad patchwork of caves and tunnels built into the cliffs, along with elevators moving up and down the mountainside. Right outside his window, a flock of bats was heading home to roost after a long night's work. Almost directly in front of him, a spotted bat who had just returned to his cave was hanging inverted while his wife and two kids greeted him with a hug.

The young fox looked away with a lonely expression. If only _he_  had a family to come home to.

When he turned to look at the screen again, the airliner was tacking above Old Growth City, Zootopia's temperate forest district…and also the city's Bohemian enclave. What Soho was to Liondon, what The Village was to Zoo York, Old Growth City was to Zootopia. None of this was apparent on the monitor screen. It was a sensation Conor could not put into words; something he felt rather than saw.

What he  _could_  see was that Old Growth City was also Zootopia's 'greenest' community, the "high rise" buildings were largely converted trees, and many of the businesses sitting perched in the branches were at least partially woven from those branches.

As the plane descended further, Conor noted that many of the trees also had designated climbing paths, and that most of these had designated jump off points for the benefit of mammals such as squirrels and pine-martens. (A sign adjacent to one of them read,  **'Warning - Maximum $200.00 fine for Jay-Leaping.** ')

One other thing became quickly apparent as the young fox studied the panorama below; Old Growth City had probably the most diverse ecosystem of any single district in Zootopia. Near the border with The Rainforest district, it was practically a rain-forest in its own right, moss, ferns, Sitka spruce and hemlock, with streams running everywhere, a close facsimile of the Olynxic National Forest in the Packsific Northwest. In the district's central valley, this terrain gave way to mostly deciduous trees, oak, beech, maple, birch, and chestnut. And on the far side of Old Growth City where it nudged up again Tundratown the topography became more alpine in nature; pine, fir, and blue spruce, interspersed here and there with long meadows of shortgrass.

Crossing above Snowshoe Pass, the airliner turned southward into Tundratown, but just as in the Rainforest District, the mountainside terrain here was entirely different from what you found in the valley below.

Whereas Tundratown central was a large, close-knit community, here, scattered amongst the peaks, were small knots of homes and businesses, most of them interconnected by aerial tramways, and only a few reachable by mountain road. Nearly all of the vehicles that the young fox could see were equipped with either snow tracks or paddle-tires. On the next mountain over, skiers and snowboarders carved long, flowing roostertails down the side of the slope.

As the plane banked further to the right it passed over what had to be one seriously exclusive neighborhood. The homes and chalets dotting this part of mountainside were positively dazzling in their swank; many were built right into the cliff-side,. One of them, an estate occupying an entire mountain-top, had been constructed to resemble a Renaissance  _Castelo._ And on the turreted roof, Conor could see a quartet of massive, dour-faced polar bears, all of them standing with their gazes turned outward while they maintained a vigil over the compound.

The young fox felt his ears prick up. Had those animals down below been Alaskan brown bears instead of polar bears, they could just as easily have been The Mister's bodyguards. Could that mansion downstairs possibly belong to…?

A cry of alarm came from the cockpit and the image on the screen abruptly shifted to a nearby pinnacle, where a chamois and a pair of bighorn sheep were seated around a fire-pit.

_"Yep,"_  The young fox concluded _,_ **"That** _was Mr. Big's place."_

Conor didn't know the Tundratown boss from Topo Giglio, but he'd  _heard_  about him; Big and the Mister had occasionally done business together. And while they'd never learned to like each other, the two crime bosses had at least been willing to accord their fellow patriarch a grudging measure of respect. It was Danny Tipperin who had summed it up best. "That shrew's attitude is like something that went out with rotary phones, but you gotta admire the way he always gets the job done."

In other words, Mr. Big was a rodent who always kept his word, (unlike The Mister, whose promises often came with more loopholes than an Afghan rug…though he would never pull that kind of stunt on Big of course.)

What Conor no way of knowing was that The Mister's downfall had everything to do with why the arctic shrew was currently holed up inside his mountain lair; he too had witnessed the demise of The Company on live TV—and he was taking no chances; who knew who might be next?

Away from the mountains and over Tundratown's main drag, the view below turned stark and featureless…a seemingly empty expanse of white.

That all changed the instant the plane traversed the wall separating Tundratown from Sahara Square; now, they were over the Canyonlands; red rock gorges and painted canyons, the buildings done up in Adobe-Chic and the neon-aqua of turquoise stone. Many of the canyons held neo-Anasazi cliff communities, the roads below them vanishing at irregular intervals into tunnels drilled through the rocks.

Here as on the cliffs of the Rainforest district, escalators and elevators could be seen moving up and down the rock-face, many of them carrying vehicles….and here also, many of the cliff-dwelling residents were bats.

Now the camera angle changed again, showing a bridge under construction over a winding, red-rock, river gorge. Desert species of all types were swarming over the site—packrats, jackrabbits, coyotes, coati, and mule deer. All of them were clad in hardhats and reflective vests, and none of them appeared to be in any kind of hurry to finish the project.

_"Must be union guys,"_  the young fox mused to himself, (typical Zoo York kid.) In fact the deliberate manner of the workers down below was more a product of their environment than a show of solidarity.

Passing near the exclusive Palm Hotel, the aircraft straightened out and commenced its final approach to ZTP International Airport. From beneath Conor's seat, a whirring and humming noise indicated that the landing gear had dropped. Seconds later, a slight bounce and a chuffing squeak proclaimed that the passengers had at last touched down in their destination city.

Only a few of them cheered, and it was derisive accolade at best; at least one voice was heard to grouse, "About TIME!"

As the plane slowed and began to taxi towards the terminal, the muntjac doe came on the intercom once again.

"Ladies and gentlemammals; please remain in your seats until the aircraft has come to a complete stop and the cabin door is open…"

Not everyone apparently thought this rule applied to them; even as the flight attendant spoke someone stalked past Conor's seat, ignoring the protests of the other passengers, determined to be the first one off the plane. The young fox only caught the briefest glimpse of the animals as he passed, but that was all it took; the woodchuck again, (who else?) and he could hear the rodent grumbling. "…large mammal section…couldn't reach anything. Just wait until I…"

Actually, there were several other 'who else's'. Almost at once, a line of other passengers formed up behind the disgruntled woodchuck. (Conor wisely chose to stay right where he was.)

Meanwhile the doe continued with her address as if nothing out of sorts were happening

"On behalf of Furgin Airlines, we'd like to take this opportunity to welcome you to the City Zootopia. Thank you for flying with us and except we hope you to see you again, very soon."

"Not likely." Someone grunted and there were several murmurs of agreement, including from a certain young silver fox, although in his case it was for a different reason.

HE wasn't planning flying  _anywhere—_ not for a seriously long time and maybe for especially had no desire to visit Zoo York City again and make that a double for Zoo Jersey!

Conor let most of the other first class passengers debark before making his own exit. (He needed to get his backpack down from the overhead first, and Tshonga was busy with that hamster couple again.)

After helping to retrieve Conor's pack from the luggage compartment, the caracal bid him a fond farewell, and the young fox graciously responded in kind.

Trundling down the concourse, he paid scant little attention to his surroundings; if you've seen one airport you've seen 'em all. If it hadn't been for the all 'Welcome to Zootopia' signs posted everywhere, the plane could have turned around and landed back in Zoo York City for all Conor Lewis knew.

There was something about those signs though. Most of them featured a brawny lion in a business suit, gesturing towards the viewer with an open pawlm. The captions all read the same:

**Welcome To Zootopia**  
"Where Anyone Can Be Anything"

**Leodore Lionheart - Mayor**

It was all rather irritating—Hizzoner seemed to be giving himself top billing over the welcome message—but right now the young fox had other concerns; should he head straight for the baggage claim or of check out Ground Transportation first?

He ultimately decided on the latter course of action; his bag wouldn't be hitting the carousel for a while anyway and look, right over there, a courtesy desk. How convenient.

A moment later, armed with the information he needed and a pair of maps, Conor stood at the top of the escalator leading down to the baggage claim—completely unable to move; the full impact of the past 24 hours had finally come home to roost.

The Company was no more, Danny and Kieran were gone, the Circle had taken itself out of commission and somewhere out there, Mr. Whitepaw was still on the hunt.

And here he was, in a city he didn't know, completely alone.

_"Well, not_  completely  _alone,"_  the young fox reminded himself.

He set down the backpack and unzipped one of the side pockets, extracting a lime-green iPaw. After hooking up the earbuds, he scrolled through the playlists, searching for…ahhh, there she is, Richard Tomcat, Live at the Shrewsbury Folk Festival, track number one.

He hit 'play' and waited. A brief announcement came over the earbuds followed by a riff on an acoustic six and then Tomcat on his trademark Strat.

The young fox felt his spine stiffen and his jaw firm up; time to quit fretting and get on with it. He stepped on to the escalator and began his descent.

As things turned out, his timing was perfect was nearly perfect; just as he reached the ground-floor level, his duffel-bag slid onto one of the carousels, practically right in front of him. Conor scurried forward on all fours—and nearly fell flat on his face, so determined to reach the duffel before it swung out of reach, he'd forgotten about extra weight on his back.

He jumped up and grabbed it just as the vocals began:

_"The world can never take what's mine…_

Ten feet away, an automatic door awaited him. Conor stuffed the laptop back inside the duffel—no need to carry three separate items—and hurried through the exit

Directly outside, he spotted a sign following a sign reading, ' **ZTA Metro** **'**  and followed it towards another set of doors.

Inside the Metro station, a train was waiting with open doors; over each of these an LCD sign said, "Zootopia Central." That was it, here was his train

For a short second, and then a longer second, the young fox hesitated. Two police mammals were minding the platform, big guys, both of them; a lion (Officer Jackson), and a black rhinoceros, (Officer Rhinowitz.) Each was standing with his back against a supporting column, giving the once over to every new arrival who passed them by.

Conor took a breath and steeled himself,  _"If they're checking out the grown-ups, they're not looking for any_ kid. _But if they see you just standing there, wondering what to do, THEN they're gonna start paying attention. Move your tail, kid."_

Too late, Officer Jackson had already noticed him, and was on his way over.

_"Agggghhhh, grrrrrrr—Dangit!"_

"Excuse me, son?" the lion asked, raising a finger.

The young fox forced himself not to grimace. A stranger calling him 'son' never failed set his teeth on edge; it was a reminder, however unintentional, that he wasn't _anybody's_ son.

At first, he pretended not to hear, an easy ruse with his ear-buds in. But then Jackson repeated what he'd said, this time pointing towards his own ears for emphasis.

"Excuse me…son?"

Conor pulled out the earbuds and looked at him. To his immense relief the big cat's expression turned instantly friendly. "I couldn't help noticing; you look kind of lost there."

If he'd been alone, the young fox would have kicked himself. Sloppy, attracting a cop's attention like that; he'd have to do better in the future, WAY better.

He thought fast and spoke hesitantly, trying his gosh-golly-darndest to sound younger than his actual age.

"Uh yeah. My grandparents said they were going to meet me at the station but," he looked around, confused," I-I guess they meant another station; I don't see them anywhere."

"They might have meant the Zootopia Central train station," the lion said, not unkindly, nodding towards the shuttle-train. "Have you tried to call them?'

The young fox started to reach for his cell. "I was just going to." Right then, someone whistled through his nose from off to the left. It was Officer Rhinowitz.

"Heads up Jackson, they're back again," he said, poking a thumb down the platform.

Conor looked, and was surprised to see two more foxes approaching, the bigger one towing a pair of mobile coolers.

They were an adult red fox and a fox kit that looked even younger than Conor, dressed in sleeper PJs and busily working on a pacifier.

That was how the little guy  _looked_ , but both he and his companion were upwind from where the young silver fox was standing, and Conor Lewis knew a fennec when he smelled one. If anything the smaller fox was even older than his companion.

As for the fennec's companion, he was dressed in a tie and a pea-soup green Hawaiian shirt that looked like it was based on a wallpaper pattern. They were halfway across the platform when Jackson got in front of them with a raised paw.

"Hey you two, I thought I told you yesterday, no food vendors are allowed inside any ZTA station without a permit."

Nick Wilde responded by letting his ears fall back and clasping his paws in a meek, submissive gesture.

"Yes sir, I remember, and I have a permit now. May I show it to you?"

The lion said nothing to this, only held out his paw in a 'give it here' gesture.

"I really don't like having to do this, officer," the red fox continued, producing the permit as requested and then gesturing towards the fennec, "But since I had my hours cut at work, I have to do whatever I can to make ends meet…for my boy."

As if to punctuate the older fox's words, his 'boy' began sucking rhythmically on his pacifier, the picture of wide eyed innocence.

Conor was tempted to shoot the pair a thumbs-up; these guys were  _good._  He wouldn't however; he was directly in the rhino-cop's line of sight and it was an unspoken rule of his species; you NEVER gave another fox's game away.

Then he noticed the sign over the coolers, the other foxes were selling bottles of something called 'Natural Organic Water'. All at once, Conor realized how thirsty he was. (He had just flown in from Zoo York after all, and the air on your average passenger plane is as dry as sandpaper.)

He started fumbling in his pocket for change, but then a recorded voice behind him intoned. "The doors are closing…the doors are closing."

Whoops, his train; hydration would have to wait. Conor made it through the doors only scant seconds before they hissed shut.

The first thing he noticed was how _clean_  it was in here—especially when stacked up against a Zoo York City Subway car, a rolling landfill by comparison. On this train by contrast, you could almost eat off the seats and there was no graffiti to be seen anywhere.

Conor Lewis was beginning to like this town. As the train pulled out of the station he put in his earbuds again and cranked up the music.

_"Monday morning, Monday morning, closing in on me!_  
_I'm packing up and I'm runnin' away, to where nobody picks on me."_

Those lyrics prompted the young fox to make a mental memo to himself, one of these days he was going to have to learn how to play this tune.

The ride to Zootopia Central took less than ten minutes.

When Conor stepped off the train again, for once he was singularly UN-impressed. Zootopia Central might seem a cavernous affair by local standards, but compared to Bunn Station or Grunt Central back in Zoo York it was Yokel Junction.

On the other paw, the place was every bit as clean and tidy as the metro car had been; no litter, no graffiti, no posters plastered to the light-poles, and the floors looked like they'd been swept maybe five minutes ago.

Best of all,  _because_  Zootopia Central wasn't all that big a place, finding his locker would be a…

The locker…

Conor stopped abruptly, as if he'd just walked into an invisible net.

The locker—Aggggghh, grrrrrr, WHY hadn't he thought of it  _before?_

He was late; he was late for his very important date, more than  _six hours late_  as a matter of fact! Whoever had left the money must have checked back at that locker at least once by now…and when they saw that the cash was still there, it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the rest. They would have known absolutely that they were dealing with The Company—The Mister would have made sure of that—and by now the whole world knew that The Company was history. When he opened that locker, there'd be nothing inside but a pawful of air! Idiot, stupid, DUMB fox; he should have taken that earlier flight when he had the chance.

He sat down on a stone bench, once more counting his breaths.

All right maybe he should have tried to snag an earlier flight, but what was done was done and he couldn't change it now—and he also couldn't be sure the locker WAS empty. While he didn't know who the buyers were, (he didn't need to know,) he'd overheard enough from both Danny and The Mister to know that whoever they were, they were desperate.

So maybe the money was still there after all. In any event there was only one way to find out.

Conor knew where the drop was of course; Danny, Kieran, and the Mister had been drilling that information into his head all week. Locker A-113, on the upper, right-side concourse, just opposite the escalator leading up to the balcony.

When the young fox actually saw the exchange-point, his first thought was that this had to the closest thing to a perfect place for a dead-drop. (He'd expected no less; Danny Tipperin had made all the arrangements.) From a corner of the upstairs balcony beside the escalator, the locker was easily visible, but from practically everywhere else in the station, it was at least partially hidden from view.

And even from Conor's vantage point, the drop point couldn't be seen by any species larger or smaller than himself, (except for possibly a giraffe.) A long, rolling wall spanning the length of the balcony, completely blocked it from above…except for a gap between a long row of sculptured vines, which just happened to be set at almost the exact eye level of a certain young silver fox.

Last but not least for sure, the closest security camera was aimed at a spot least five paces to the right of locker A-113.

Even so, he wasn't taking any chances, (something else that had been pounded into his skull.) He rode up and down the escalator twice, checking for cops or anyone else scoping the locker, keeping a razor-sharp eye and nose out for either polar bears or wild boars—especially the latter. Returning to his vantage point, he stood with his back to the balcony partition and shot a dozen pictures oflocker A-113 with his cell-phone camera, using the zoom function as makeshift binoculars. Only two of the pictures actually showed the locker, but they were enough. The coast was clear—at least as far as the young silver fox could tell anyway.

_"Okay, let's do this thing."_  He told himself.

Working quickly, he found a quiet corner and transferred everything but the 'candy' from his backpack to the duffel bag. The chain around his neck went in there too, but not the key that had been attached to it; that item he put in his pocket.

What happened next happened very fast. At the bottom of the escalator, and halfway across the concourse, Conor stopped, pretending to get a text message on his cell phone and instead punching in the code to shut down the security cameras. No time to think, no time to hope, he went to straight to the locker and inserted the key.

It fit, and when he opened the door, YES! There was the other backpack, o happy day, still there!

Conor made the exchange swiftly and without ceremony, and then for the first time, he deviated from his instructions. Instead of switching the name tag over to the other backpack, the young fox snapped it in two, making sure the tracking chip was destroyed. (It was no use to anyone but the ZPD now.)

The second pack was a dull, charcoal-black in color and also larger than the first one, but nothing he couldn't handle. (It was a good thing he wouldn't be flying it back to Zoo York though. No way would any airline accept  _this_  bad boy as a carry-on.)

Punching in the numbers to reactivate the security cams, Conor headed for the exit, using the overhead balcony as cover. He still had plenty to do, but first he had to put some space between himself and locker A-113. After that, he needed to find a place where he wouldn't be observed and check to make sure that new pack held what it was  _supposed_  to hold.

A nearby restroom stall proved more than adequate for that purpose, and when he unzipped the pack a quick glimpse told the young fox all he needed to know; yes, the money was there. Whether it was ALL there he couldn't tell, (and in any case he didn't know; no one had told him how  _much_  cash he was picking up beyond, 'a lot.') But was there were definitely stacks of money in the second backpack, enough to fill it to the top and it sure as heck looked like the real deal. For the moment at least that was all Conor Lewis needed to know.

Okay, next order of business, get his tail outside and punch up that emergency number on his speed dial list.

First thing was first however; by now the young fox's dry throat had come roaring back with a vengeance. After finding a concession stand and paying way too much for a soda that was mostly ice, Conor drained it in single slug and refilled it twice from a drinking fountain. Only then did he settle down on a bench beneath an Acacia tree, outside the station entrance.

Pulling on his headset, the young fox couldn't help noticing that directly across from where he was sitting was a sandstone edifice built in the shape of a carousel. The sign above the entrance said simply, 'Police.'

An hour, even ten minutes earlier that would have prompted him to go sit somewhere else, but now that he'd safely made the exchange, his feelings were more like, "ah, the heck with it."

He powered up the bluefang and tapped the first number on speed-dial.

Without even so much as a single ring, the phone connected, and an electronic voice was speaking in his ears.

"If someone has tried to rip you off, press one."

Conor almost ripped off the head-set.  _"You have GOT to be stinking kidding me. A plinkity-dang MENU?"_

But then the voice said. "If you think you're being followed, press two…"

Not exactly being followed, but that was close enough, he pressed the Number Two button.

"Who do you think is following you?" the voice asked him next, "If it's the police, press one. If it's…"

Conor pressed Number One. No, it wasn't the cops after him, not by themselves anyway, but again, it was close enough.

"Did you successfully make the exchange?" the voice asked him.

The young fox growled under his breath "Will you come  _on_  already?" and pressed Number One without waiting to see if that was the entry for 'yes'.

It was…and now the questions finally ended.

"Go to the ticket kiosk and purchase an all-day pass using your debit card." The synthetic voice told him, "After you have obtained your ticket, dial the number twenty five, followed by the 'pound key'."

Conor nodded and got up, wondering where the heck that kiosk was. Well, there had to be at least several of them around here somewhere.

He moved out from under the acacia tree, and immediately found himself looking up at Gazelle.

She gazed down upon Savanna Central plaza from a three-story LED billboard, and as the young fox watched, she offered a recorded greeting to everyone below.

"Hi, I'm Gazelle—and welcome to Zootopia." She said, smiling and laying a hoof up her hip.

Unlike many another mammal meeting that billboard for the first time, Conor Lewis wasn't instantly smitten…for the simple reason he once had seen the lady herself in the flesh and fur. Like Danny Tipperin, he had also been present the night she'd performed 'Try Everything' for the first time. True, he'd been watching her from behind a lighting fixture but just the same, an electronic rendering, no matter how spectacular couldn't come close to the real Gazelle; within two minutes of climbing up onto her chair, she'd had Finagle's in the frog of her hoof.

Finagles…

There was nothing left of it now but charred ruins and memories; what had Gazelle thought, when she heard about the police raid and firefight? What would she say now?

(In fact, Gazelle was even now preparing press statement with the help of her manager. "While I was a sometime patron of Finagle's club, I wish to assure you that I was in no way associated with the mammals who owned it…")

Finding the ticket kiosk turned out to be easy-peasy; there were indeed several of them, each one placed in close proximity to an escalator. After getting his day-pass, the young fox retired to a nearby bench and entered 25# as instructed.

The phone immediately told him, "All further instructions will be in text form. Please turn your phone sideways and read carefully."

Conor understood at once the wisdom of this change of tactics. If he missed anything, a quick glance at his cell's display screen would fix the problem.

He spun the phone 90 degrees; four lines of text appeared.

1\. Go to platform C and board the Zootopia Loop train (Red) westbound

2\. Exit at Tujunga station and board the northbound Rainforest District train (Green) also northbound.

3\. Exit at Precipitation Street station and re-board the Red train northbound.

4\. Exit at Rainbow Falls station and enter 25# for further instructions.

There was more text underneath, not instructions, but advice. Conor only skimmed this part; he'd already been over most of it in detail with Danny Tipperin. ("Never be the first or last mammal to board your train," "Avoid standing alone on train platforms," "Seat yourself in the middle car if possible," etc.)

Finding the correct platform, he cranked up his iPaw once more, just in time to hear…

_"A one-way ticket's in my paw,_  
_Heading for where I belong…"_

He was  _definitely_  going to have to teach himself to play this song.

The next few hours were largely a blur to the young silver fox. By the time he changed trains for the second time, he had no idea where he was or where he was going, (which was the general idea of course; with a little luck, neither would anyone looking for him.)

Even though this was anything but a sightseeing tour, Conor couldn't help but be enthralled. In Zoo York City, everywhere you went it was DC-SE—Different Construction, Same Ecosystem. Here the environment seemed to alter with every passing block, even within the various districts. At one point, the young fox's train was crossing a misty jungle gorge, less than an hour later he was rolling through an expanse of table-flat grassland.

Only once did he deviate from his given instructions…but even then he managed to make proper advantage of the situation.

It happened on Savanna Central's south-side, while Conor was changing trains at Baobab Station. No sooner did his feet hit the platform than a raft of cooking aromas assailed his nostrils. At once the young fox's stomach hit him with a forcible reminder; the last thing he'd eaten had been two small bags of trail mix—and that had been back on the plane!

After that, resistance was futile. Ascending the station steps, he spied a motorcade of food carts stacked up on the opposite side of the street. Beyond these, a crowd had gathered; some kind of ceremony, judging by the podium and all the bunting. Hoisted above the speaker's platform was banner the size of a baseball tarp, reading, "Z.A. P. A. - Zootopia's Gift to the Gifted."

"What the heck does  _that_  mean?" Conor wondered, raising an ear as the opening lyrics of 'Valley Girl' began playing in his psyche.

Never mind, hadn't Danny Tipperin told him once that if you think you're being tailed, you should try to lose yourself in a crowd? Why yes…yes, he had. And if mingling with a crowd required the young fox to pass near a food cart, might as well something to eat since it was so close anyway.

Not in the mood to be picky, the young fox simply zeroed in on the cart closest to him, ordering Pad Thai and a soda. He almost skipped the part about blending with the crowd, but his curiosity was up. There were not only quite a few regular citizens in attendance here but also a fair contingent of media types. And now behind the podium he could see a construction fence, and a cluster of old buildings. (Actually, most of the structures were half a step up from dilapidated; being from Zoo York, the young fox easily recognized that state of neglect.)

Then the crowd began to stir and Conor observed a smallish ewe in oversized glasses ascending towards the podium. There was no applause, only a small hubbub.

"Ladies and Gentlemmals, and members of the press, thank you for coming out today," she said—and that was as far as she got before the big lion came up beside her and all but swatted her off the speaker's stand.

"Fine Smellweather, fine," he rumbled, stepping behind the podium and adjusting the microphone to his own height. Conor recognized him at once, the big cat whose face had adorned all the welcome posters back at the airport, His Honor, Mayor Leodore Lionheart.

"Ladies and Gentlemammals," he began, clasping a lapel like a proud, new father, "here in our fair city we have a motto, 'Zootopia—where anyone can be anything.'"

"Well, DUH!"

Conor looked to his right and saw a llama with a TV Camera on his shoulder—and a cynical expression on his face. "What's next, the earth is round?" he muttered, peaking to no one in particular.

Meanwhile the mayor was saying, "And so today my fellow citizens we break ground on a facility specifically dedicated to that belief, the Zootopia Academy For the Performing Arts."

_"So_  that's  _what ZAPA stands for."_  Conor thought to himself, no longer amused but intrigued.

"This will not be a school for everyone." Mayor Lionheart was waving a cautionary finger. "The entrance standards for the Academy will be the highest for any school in Zootopia. And even those applicants who measure up academically will be admitted only if they display a high degree of aptitude in the performing arts. But for those kids with both the will and the skill," he paused to smile at his own turn of phrase, "ZAPA will be their gateway to the future."

He continued on in this vein for several more minutes while Conor paid him scant attention; everything that followed was pure puffery. Nonetheless, the young fox was riveted; when he got to wherever it was he was going, there would be another promise to add to his list.

Wrapping up his address, Lionheart offered a beaming smile and said, "And now I'd be happy to take a few questions from the press."

Almost immediately, he came to regret that last statement. At the front of the crowd, a pretty snow-leopard raised a pen. His Honor called on her immediately—and just as quickly, she pounced.

"Mayor Lionheart, Fabienne Growley, ZNN. Sir, isn't it rather premature to hold a ground-breaking ceremony when the ZAPA project is still so critically underfunded?"

In response to this, Lionheart's face fell earthward but then rebounded almost immediately.

"Just how bad _is_ our funding problem?" he asked himself rhetorically, "Well-l-l-l I'm afraid that would require a somewhat lengthy answer, and..." He hurriedly looked at his watch. "And I see that I'm running much later than I anticipated. However, I'm certain that Assistant Mayor Bellwether will be more than capable of providing you will an answer. Mayor Bellwether?"

"Annnnd he punts!' The llama with the camera observed dryly as Lionheart exited the speaker's platform, leaving his hapless deputy to fend for herself.

Conor swiftly decided that this would be a good time to make his exit as well; he'd seen and heard enough.

_"How much more of his scrap is that sheep going to_ take _from her boss?"_  he had to wonder.

Not a whole lot, the young fox concluded; he had caught the parting glance Bellwether thrown Hizzoner's way, right before he bolted into his limo.

It had been not unlike the expression he'd seen on a certain female wolverine's face back at Finagles—while she'd been checking the load in her dart gun, right after Junior McCrodon had also jumped into a limousine.

Never mind, Mayor Lyin'-hard wasn't his problem.

At his next stop, Cactus Grove station in Sahara Square, the text- message on his cell phone turned out to be somewhat different than the previous ones.

"If you haven't been picked by the police by now, it's a good bet that you won't be; pay close attention to the following instructions—and hang in there, you're almost home.

1\. Take the red-line train to the Oasis Hotel Station and change to the Bunnyburrows (Yellow) Northbound Train.

2\. Make your exit at High Road Station, and then enter the number 30 followed by the # key.

3\. High Road Station will be your final train stop.

Conor put the phone away and took a long, deep breath.

And then he proceeded to perform an improvised version of the Catty Purry Backpack Dance, back bent and arms lowered, swishing left to right as he glided across the station platform in a skating motion. At that moment Richard Tomcat was singing in his earbuds,

_"And I'll be dancing down the street.  
When I get to the borrrrder."_

The young fox's groove drew differing reactions from the animals nearby. Duke Weaselton sniggered dryly and Emmitt Otterton clapped his paws...but Jerry Jumbeaux blew a scornful note through his trunk, muttering to no one in particular, "Foxes!"

Conor didn't care; something else had just come home to him.

He was  _free!_

Dylan Yeats never had a chance,

But Conor Lewis did.

For the first time in his life, the young silver fox had the right to make his  _own_  decisions.

He bounded across the platform and onto the red-line train. Seconds later it pulled away, leaving in its wake a sign reading,

**Zootopia Loop Line**

**< \- Peak Street       **

**Tundra Gate - >  
     Oasis Hotel ->**

**Always The Desert Sets The Pace**

And beyond this, in the middle distance, a plain, undecorated storefront in translucent alabaster;

It was a trim oddly reminiscent of one that once that had once graced a certain dance club in Zoo York City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the Fire Triangle - Prologue.
> 
> The story will continue in The Fire Triangle - Part 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Keep an eye out for Easter Eggs throughout the Fire Triangle series. This one, for example, contains a reference to Snow White


End file.
